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DAVID ELGINBROD. 











David Elginbrod 


BY 

GEORGE MACDONALD 

AUTHOR OF “ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD,” “THE SEABOARD PARISH.** 
“ALEC FORBES OF HOWGLEN,” “GUILD COURT,” ETC. 


•"And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche.** 

— Chaucer. 


PHILADELPHIA: 


DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER, 

610 SOUTH WASHINGTON SQUARE. 



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DAYID ELGINBEOD. 


CHAPTER I. 


THE FIR-WOOD, 

. . . Of all the flowers in the mead, 

Then love I most these flowers white and rede, 

Such that men callen daisies in our town. 

1 ienae blithe 

As soon as ever the sun ginneth west, 

To see this flower, how it will go to rest, 

For fear of night, so hateth she darkness; 

Her cheer is plainly spread in the brightness 
Of the sunne, for there it will unolose. 

Chaucer. — Prologue to ik* ljegend if Good Women, 


“Meg ! whaur are ye gaein’ that get, like a wull shuttle? 
Come in to the beuk.” 

Meg’s mother stood at the cottage door, with arms akimbo, 
and clouded brow, calling through the boles of a little forest 
of fir-trees after her daughter. One would naturally pre- 
sume that the phrase she employed, comparing her daughter’s 
motions to those of a shuttle that had “gane wull,” or lost its 
way, implied that she was watching her as she threaded her 
way through the trees. But, although she could not see her, 
the fir-wood was certainly the likeliest place for her daughter 
to be in ; and the figure she employed was not in the least in- 
applicable to Meg’s usual mode of wandering through the 
trees, thac operation being commonly performed in the most 
erratic manner possible. It was the ordinary occupation of 
the first hour of almost every day of Margaret’s life. Aa 


4 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


soon as she woke in the morning, the fir-wood drew her to- 
wards it, and she rose and went. Through its crowd of slender 
pillars she strayed hither and thither, in an aimless manner, 
as if resignedly haunting the neighborhood of something she 
had lost, or, hopefully, that of a treasure she expected one day 

It did not seem that she had heard her mother’s call, for 
no response followed; and Janet Elginbrod returned into the 
cottage, where David, of the same surname, who was already 
seated at the white deal table with “the beuk, or large 
family Bible, before him, straightway commenced reading a 
chapter in the usual routine from the Old Testament, the -New 
being reserved for the evening devotions. The chapter was 
the fortieth of the prophet Isaiah; and as the voice of the 
reader reuttered the words of old inspiration, one might have 
thought that it was the voice of the ancient prophet himself, 
pourmg forth the expression of his own faith in his expostula- 
tions with the unbelief of his brethren. The chapter finished 
— it is none of the shortest, and Meg had not yet returned — 
the two knelt, and David prayed thus : — 

u 0 Thou who holdest the waters in the nollow ot ae han , 
ind carriest the lambs o’ thy own making in thy bosom with 
the other han’, it would be altogether unworthy o thee, and 
o’ thy Maijesty o’ love, to require o’ us that which thou 
knowest we cannot bring unto thee, until thou enrich us with 
that same. Therefore, like thine own bairns, we boo doon 
afore thee, an’ pray that thou wouldst tak thy wull o’ us, thy 
holy, an’ perfect, an’ blessed wull o’ us ; for, 0 God, we are 
a’ thine ain. An’ for oor lassie, wha’s oot amo’ thy trees, an 
wha we dinna think forgets her Maker, though she may whiles 
forget her prayers, Lord, keep her a bonnie lassie in thy sicht, 
as white an’ clean in thy een as she is fair an’ halesome in 
oors; an’ oh! we thank thee, Father in heaven, for giem her 
to us. An’ noo, for a’ oor wrang-duins an’ ill-min’ins, for a/ 
oor sins an’ trespasses o’ mony sorts, dinna forget them 0 
God, till thou pits them a’ richt, an’ syne exerceese thy michty 
power e’en ower thine ain sel’, an’ clean forget them a the- 
gither ; cast them ahint thy back, whaur e’en thine ain een 
shall ne’er see them again, that we may walk bold an’ upricht 
afore thee for evermore, an’ see the face o’ Him wha was a 


DAVID ELGINBROD, 


5 


muckle God in doin’ thy biddin’, as gin he had been orderin’ 
a’ thing himsel’. For his sake, Ahmen.” 

I hope my readers will not suppose that I give this as a 
specimen of Scotch prayers. I know better than that. David 
was an unusual man, and his prayers were unusual prayers. 
The present was a little more so in its style, from the fact 
that one of the subjects of it was absent, a circumstance that 
rarely happened. But the degree of difference was too small 
to be detected by any but those who were quite accustomed to 
his forms of thought and expression. How much of it J anet 
understood or sympathized with it is difficult to say ; for any- 
thing that could be called a thought rarely crossed the thresh- 
old of her utterance. On this occasion, at the moment the 
prayer was ended, she rose from her knees, smoothed down her 
check apron, and went to the door, where, shading her eyes 
from the blinding sun with her hand, she peered from under 
its penthouse into the fir-wood, and said, in a voice softened 
apparently by the exercise in which she had taken a silent 
share : — 

“ Whaur can the lassie be ?’•' 

And where was the lassie? In the fir-wood, to be sure, 
with the thousand shadows, and the sunlight through it all : 
for at this moment the light fell upon her far in its depths, and 
revealed her hastening towards the cottage in as straight a 
line as the trees would permit, now blotted out by a crossing 
shadow, and anon radiant in the sunlight, appearing and 
vanishing as she threaded the upright warp of the fir-wood. 
It was morning all around her ; and one might see that it was 
morning within her too, as, emerging at last in the small open 
space around the cottage, Margaret — I cannot call her Meg , 
although her mother does — her father always called her 
“Maggy, my doo,” Anglice , dove — Margaret approached her 
mother with a bright, healthful face, and the least possible 
expression of uneasiness on her fair forehead. She carried a 
book in her hand. 

“What gars ye gang stravaguin’ that get, Meg, whan ye 
ken weel aneuch ye sud a’ been in to worship lang syne ? An’ 
sae we maun hae worship our lanes for want o’ you, ye 
hizzy ! ” 

“ I didna ken it was sae late, mitlier,” replied Margaret, in 


6 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


a submissive tone, musical in spite of the rugged dialect into 
which the sounds were fashioned. 

“Nae dout! Ye had yer brakfast. an’ ye warna that 
hungry for the word. But here comes yer father, an’ ye’ll 
no mend for his fly tin’, I’se promise.” 

“Hoots! lat the bairn alane, Janet, my woman. The 
word’ll be mair to her afore lang.” 

“ I wat she has a word o’ her nain there. What beuk hae 
ye gotten there, Meg ? Whaur got ye’t ? ” 

Had it not been for the handsome binding of the book in her 
daughter’s hand, it would neither have caught her eye, nor 
roused the suspicions of J anet. David glanced at the book in 
his turn, and a faint expression of surprise, embodied chiefly 
in the opening of his eyelids a little wider than usual, crossed 
his face. But he only said with a smile : — 

“ I didna ken that the tree o’ knowledge, wi’ sic fair fruit, 
grew in our wud, Maggy, my doo.” 

“ Whaur gat ye the beuk? ” reiterated Janet. 

Margaret’s face was by this time the color of the crimson 
boards of the volume in her hand, but she replied at once : — 
“ I got it frae Maister Sutherland I reckon.” 

Janet’s first response was an inverted whistle; her next, 
another question : — 

“ Maister Sutherlan’ ! wha’s that o’t? ” 

“Hoot, lass!” interposed David, “ye ken weel aneuch. 
It’s the new tutor lad up at the hoose ; a fine, douce, honest 
chield, an’ weel-faured, forby. Lat’s see the bit beuky, lassie.” 
Margaret handed it to her father. 

“ ‘ Cob e-ridge’s Poems,’ ” read David, with some difficulty. 

“ Tak’ it hame direckly,” said Janet. 

“ Na, na,” said David ; “a’ the apples o’ the tree o’ knowl- 
edge are no stappit wi’ sut an stew; an’ gin this ane be, she’ll 
sune ken by the taste o’t what’s cornin’. It’s no muckle o’ an 
ill beuk ’at ye’ll read, Maggie, my doo.” 

“ Quid preserve’s, man ! I’m no sayin’ it’s an ill beuk. But 
it’s no richt to make appintments wi’ stranger lads i’ the wud 
sae ear’ i’ the mornin’. Is’t noo, yersel’ Meg ? ” 

“ Mither ! mither ! ” said Margaret, and her eyes flashed 
through the watery veil that tried to hide them, “ hoo can ye? 
Ye ken yersel I had nae appintment wi’ him or ony man.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


7 


“ Weel, weel ! ” said Janet; and apparently either satisfied 
with, or overcome by, the emotion she had excited, she turned 
and went in to pursue her usual house avocations ; while 
David, handing the the book to his daughter, went away down 
the path that led from the cottage door, in the direction of a 
road to be seen at a little distance through the trees, which 
uurroundei the cottage on all sides. Margaret followed her 
mother into the cottage, and was soon as busy as she with her 
share of the duties of the household ; but it was a good 
many minutes before the cloud caused by her mother’s hasty 
words entirely disappeared from a forehead which might with 
especial justice be called the sky of her face. 

Meantime David emerged upon the more open road, and 
bent his course, still through fir-trees, towards a house for 
whose sake alone the road seemed to have been constructed. 


CHAPTER II. 


DAVID ELGINBROD AND THE NEW TUTOR. 

. . . Concord between our wit and will, 

Where highest notes to godliness are raised, 

And lowest sink not down to jot of ill. 

What Languetus taught Sir Philip Sidney. 

The Arcadia — Third Eclogue. 


The House of Turriepuffit stood about a furlong from Da- 
vid’s cottage. It was the abode of the Laird, or landed proprie- 
tor, in whose employment David filled several offices ordinarily 
distinct. The estate was a small one, and almost entirely 
farmed by the owner himself ; who, with David's help, man- 
aged to turn it to good account. Upon week-days, he appeared 
on horseback in a costume more fitted for following the plough ; 
but he did not work with his own hands ; and on Sundays was 
at once recognizable as a country gentleman. 

David was his bailiff, or grieve, to overlook the laborers on 
the estate ; his steward, to pay them, and keep the farm ac- 
counts ; his head gardener, for little labor was expended in 


8 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


that direction, there being only one lady, the mistress of the 
house, and she no patroness of useless flowers. David was, in 
fact, the laird’s general adviser and executor. 

The laird’s family, besides the lady already mentioned, con- 
sisted only of two boys, of the ages of eleven and fourteen 
whom he wished to enjoy the same privileges he had himselt 
possessed, and to whom, therefore, he was giving a classical 
and mathematical education, in view of the University , y 
means of private tutors ; the last of whom — for the changes 
were not few, seeing the salary was of the smallest — was 
Hugh Sutherland, the young man concerning whom David 
Elginbrod has already given his opinion. But, notwithstand- 
ing the freedom he always granted his daughter, and his good 
opinion of Hugh as well, David could not help feeling a little 
anxious, in his walk along the road towards the house, as to 
what the apparent acquaintance between her and the new tutor 
might evolve ; but he got rid of all the difficulty, as far as he 
was concerned, by saying at last : 

“ What richt hae I to interfere, even supposin 1 wanted to 
interfere ? But I can lippen weel to my bonny doo ; an’ for 
the rest, she maun tak’ her chance like the lave . o s. An 
wha kens but it micht jist be stan’in’ afore Him, i’ the very 
get that He meant to gang. The Lord forgie me for speakin 
o’ chance, as gin I believed in ony sic havers. There s no 
fear o’ the lassie. Gude-mornin’ t’ye, Maister Sutherlan . 
That’s a braw beuk o’ ballants ye gae the len’ o’ to my Mag- 
gy, this mornin’, sir.” 

Sutherland was just entering a side-door of the house when 
David accosted him. He was not old enough to keep from 
blushing at David’s words ; but, having a good conscience, he 
was ready with a good answer. 

“ It’s a good book, Mr. Elginbrod. It will do her no harm, 

though it be ballads.” 

i: I’m in no dreed o’ that, sir. Bairns maun hae ballants. 
An’, to tell the truth, sir, I’m no muckle mair nor a bairn in 
that respeck mysel’. In fap, |)his verra mornin’, at the beuk, 
I jist thocht I was readin’ a gran’ godly ballant, an’ it soundet 

uane the waur for the notiop o t.” < 

“ Yqi* should have been a poet yourself, Mr. Elginbrod. 

“ Na, na ; I ken naething aboot yer poetry. I hae read 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


9 


auld John Milton ower an’ ower, though I dinna believe the 
half o’t : but, oh ! weel I like some o’ the bonny bitties at the 
en’ o’t.” 

11 1 11 Penseroso ,’ for instance? ” 

“ Is that hoo ye ca’t ? I ken’t weel by the sicht, but hardly 
by the soun’. I aye missed the name o’t, an’ took to the 
thing itsel’. Eh, man! — I beg yer pardon, sir, — but it’s 
wonnerfu’ bonny !” 

“ I’ll come in some evening, and we’ll have a chat about it,” 
replied Sutherland. “ I must go to my work now.” 

“We’ll a’ be verra happy to see you, sir. Gude-mornin’, 
sir.” 

“ Good-morning.” 

David went to the garden, where there was not much to be 
done in the way of education at this season of the year ; and 
Sutherland to the school-room, where he was busy, all the rest 
of the morning and part of the afternoon, with Caesar and Vir- 
gil, Algebra and Euclid, — food upon which intellectual babes 
are reared to the stature of college youths. 

Sutherland was himself only a youth ; for he had gone early 
to college, and had not yet quite completed the curriculum. 
He was now filling up with teaching the recess between his 
third and his fourth winter at one of the Aberdeen universities. 
He was the son of an officer, belonging to the younger branch 
of a family of some historic distinction and considerable wealth. 
This officer, though not far removed from the estate and title 
as well, had nothing to live upon but his half-pay ; for, to the 
disgust of hi 3 family, he had married a Welsh girl of ancient 
descent, in whose line the poverty must have been at least coe- 
val with the history, to judge from the perfection of its devel- 
opment in the case of her father ; and his relations made this 
the excuse for quarrelling with him ; so relieving themselves 
from any obligation they might have been supposed to lie un- 
der, of rendering him assistance of some sort or other. This, 
however, rather suited the temperament of Major Robert Suth- 
erland, who was prouder in his poverty than they in their 
riches. So he disowned them forever, and accommodated 
himself, with the best grace in the world, to his yet more 
straitened circumstances. He resolved, however, cost what it 
might in pinching and squeezing, to send his son to college 


10 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


before turning him out to shift for himself. In this Mr3. 
Sutherland was ready to support him to the utmost ; and so 
they had managed to keep their boy at college for three ses- 
sions ; after the last of which, instead of returning home, as 
he had done on previous occasions, he had looked about him for 
a temporary engagement as tutor, and soon found the situation 
he now occupied in the family of William Glasford, Esq., of 
Turriepuffit, where he intended to remain no longer than the 
commencement of the session, which would be his fourth and 
last. To what he should afterwards devote himself he had by 
no means made up his mind, except that it must of necessity 
be hard work of some kind or other. So he had at least the 
virtue of desiring to be independent. His other goods and 
bads must come out in the course of the story. His pupils 
were rather stupid and rather good-natured ; so that their tem- 
perament operated to confirm their intellectual condition, and 
to render the labor of teaching them considerably irksome. 
But he did his work tolerably well, and was not so much inter- 
ested in the result as to be pained at the moderate degree of 
his success. At the time of which I write, however, the prob- 
ability as to his success was scarcely ascertained, for he had 
been only a fortnight at the task. 

It was the middle of the month of April, in a rather back- 
ward season. The weather had been stormy, with frequent 
showers of sleet and snow. Old Winter was doing his best to 
hold young Spring back by the skirts of her garment, and very 
few of the wild flowers had yet ventured to look out of their warm 
beds in the mould. Sutherland, therefore, had made but few dis- 
coveries in the neighborhood. Not that the weather would 
have kept him to the house, had he had any particular desire 
to go out ; but, like many other students, he had no predilec- 
tion for objectless exertion, and preferred the choice of his own 
weather indoors, namely, from books and his own imaginings, 
to an encounter with the keen blasts of the North, charged 
as they often were with sharp bullets of hail. When the sun 
did shine out between the showers, his cold glitter upon the 
pools of rain or melted snow, and on the wet evergreens and 
gravel walks, always drove him back from the window with a 
shiver. The house, which was of very moderate size and 
comfort, stood in the midst of plantations, principally of Scotch 


DAVID ELGINBROD 


11 


firs and larches, some of the former old and of great growth, 
so that they had arrived at the true condition of the tree, which 
seems to require old age for the perfection of its idea. There 
was very little to be seen from the windows except this wood, 
which, somewhat gloomy at almost any season, was at the 
present cheerless enough ; and Sutherland found it very dreary 
indeed, as exchanged for the wide view from his own home on 
i he side of an open hill in the Highlands. 

In the midst of circumstances so uninteresting, it is not to 
be wondered at, that the glimpse of a pretty maiden should, 
one morning, occasion him some welcome excitement. Passing 
downstairs to breakfast, he observed the drawing-room door 
ajar, and looked in to see what sort of a room it was ; for so 
seldom was it used that he had never yet entered it. There 
stood a young girl, peeping, with mingled curiosity and rever- 
ence, into a small gilt-leaved volume, which she had lifted 
from the table by which she stood. He watched her for a 
moment with some interest ; when she, seeming to become mes- 
merically aware that she was not alone, looked up, blushed 
deeply, put down the book in confusion, and proceeded to dust 
some of the furniture. It was his first sight of Margaret. 
Some of the neighbors were expected to dinner, and her aid 
was in requisition to get the grand room of the house prepared 
for the occasion. He supposed her to belong to the household, 
till, one day, feeling compelled to go out for a stroll, he caught 
sight of her so occupied at the door of her father’s cottage, 
that he perceived at once that must be her home : she was, in 
fact, seated upon a stool, paring potatoes. She saw him as 
well, and, apparently ashamed at the recollection of having been 
discovered idling in the drawing-room, rose and went in. He 
had met David once or twice about the house, and, attracted 
by his appearance, had had some conversation with him ; but 
he did not know where he lived, nor that he was the father of 
the girl whom he had seen. 


12 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE DAISY AND THE PRIMROSE. 


Dear secret Greenness, nursed below 
Tempest3 and winds and winter nights ! 

Vex not that but one sees thee grow; 

That One made all these lesser lights. 

Henry Vaughan. 

It was, of course, quite by accident that Sutherland had 
met Margaret in the fir-wood. The wind had changed during 
the night, and swept all the clouds from the face of the sky ; 
and when he looked out in the morning, he saw the fir-tops 
waving in the sunlight, and heard the sound of a south-west 
wind sweeping through them with the tune of running waters 
in its course. It is a well-practised ear that can tell whether 
the sound it hears be that of gently falling waters, or of wind 
flowing through the branches of firs. Sutherland’s heart, re- 
viving like a dormouse in its hole, began to be joyful at the 
sight of the genial motions of Nature, telling of warmth and 
blessedness at hand. Some goal of life, vague, but sure, 
seemed to glimmer through the appearances around him, and 
to stimulate him to action. He dressed in haste, and went 
out to meet the spring. He wandered into the heart of the 
wood. The sunlight shone like a sunset upon the red trunks 
and boughs of the old fir-trees, but like the first sunrise of the 
world upon the new green fringes that edged the young shoots 
of the larches. High up hung the memorials of past summers 
in the rich brown tassels of the clustering cones ; while the 
ground under foot was dappled with sunshine on the fallen fir- 
needles, and the great fallen cones which had opened to scatter 
their autumnal seed, and now lay waiting for decay. Over- 
head, the tops whence they had fallen waved in the wind, as 
in welcome of the spring, with that peculiar swinging motion 
which made the poets of the sixteenth century call them u sail- 
ing pines.” The wind blew cool, but not cold ; and was filled 
with a delicious odor from the earth, which Sutherland took 
as a sign that she was coming alive at last. And the spring 
he went out to meet met him. For, first, at the foot of a tree, 
he spied a tiny primrose, peeping out of its rough, careful 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


13 


leaves ; and he wondered how, by any metamorphosis, Buch 
leaves could pass into such a flower. Had he seen the mother 
of the next spring-messenger he was about to meet, the same 
thought would have returned in another form. For, next, as 
he passed on with the primrose in his hand, thinking it was 
almost cruel to pluck it, the spring met him, as if in her own 
shape, in the person of Margaret, whom he spied a little way 
off, leaning against the stem of a Scotch fir, and looking up to 
its top swaying overhead in the first billows of the outburst 
ocean of life. He went up to her with some shyness ; for the 
presence of even a child - maiden was enough to make Suther- 
land shy, — partly from the fear of startling her shyness, as 
one feels when drawing near a crouching fawn. But she, 
when she heard his footsteps, dropped her eyes slowly from the 
tree-top, and, as if she were in her own sanctuary, waited his 
approach. He said nothing at first, but offered her, instead 
of speech, the primrose he had just plucked, which she received 
with a smile of the eyes only, and the sweetest “ Thank you, 
sir,” he had ever heard. But while she held the primrose in 
her hand, her eyes wandered to the book which, according to 
his custom, Sutherland had caught up as he left the house. 
It was the only well-bound book in his possession ; and the 
eyes of Margaret, not yet tutored by experience, naturally 
expected an entrancing page within such beautiful boards ; for 
the gayest bindings she had seen were those of a few old 
annuals up at the house, — and were they not full of the most 
lovely tales and pictures ? In this case, however, her expecta- 
tion was not vain ; for the volume was, as I have already dis- 
closed, “ Coleridge’s Poems.” 

Seeing her eyes fixed upon the book, “ Would you like to 
read it?” said he. 

“ If you please, sir,” answered Margaret, her eyes brighten- 
ing with the expectation of delight. 

“ Are you fond of poetry ? ” 

Her face fell. The only poetry she knew was the Scotcn 
Psalms and Paraphrases, and such last-century verses as 
formed the chief part of the selections in her school-books ; for 
this was a very retired parish, and the newer books bad not 
yet reached its school. She had hoped chiefly for tales. 

“I dinna ken much about poetry,” she answered, trying to 


11 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


speak English. “ There’s an auld book o’t on my father’s 
shelf ; but the letters o’t are auld-fashioned, an’ I dinna care 


aboot it.” 

“But this is quite easy to read, and very beautiful,” said 
Hugh. 

The girl’s eyes glistened for a moment, and this was all her 


“Would you like to read it?” resumed Hugh, seeing no 
further answer was on the road. 

She held out her hand towards the volume. When he, in 
his turn, held the volume towards her hand, she almost 
snatched it from him, and ran towards the house, without a 
word of thanks or leave-taking — whether from eagerness, or 
doubt of the propriety of accepting the offer, Hugh could not 
conjecture. He stood for some moments looking after her, and 
then retraced his steps towards the house. 

It would have been something, in the monotony of one of 
the most trying of positions, to meet one who snatched at the 
offered means of spiritual growth, even if that disciple had not 
been a lovely girl, with the woman waking in her eyes. He 
commenced the duties of the day with considerably more of 
energy than he had yet brought to bear on his uninteresting 
pupils ; and this energy did not flag before its effects upon the 
boys began to react in fresh impulse upon itself. 


CHAPTER IY. 

THE COTTAGE. 

0 little Bethlem! poor in walls, 

But rich in furniture. 

John Mason’s Spiritual Songs. 

There was one great alleviation to the various discomforts 
of Sutherland’s tutor-life. It was, that, except during school- 
hours, he was expected to take no charge whatever of his pu- 
pils. They ran wild all other times; which was far better, in 


DAVID ELG1NBR0D. 


15 


tfvery way, both for them and for him. Consequently he was 
entirely his own master beyond the fixed margin of scholastic 
duties; and he soon found that his absence, even from the 
table, was a matter of no interest to the family. To be sure, 
it involved his own fasting till the next meal-time came round, 
for the lady was quite a household martinet ; but that was 
his own concern. 

That very evening, he made his way to David’s cottage, 
about the country supper-time, when he thought he should 
most likely find him at home. It was a clear, still, moonlit 
night, with just an air of frost. There was light enough for 
him to see that the cottage was very neat and tidy, looking, in 
the midst of its little forest, more like an English than a Scotch 
habitation. He had had the advantage of a few months’ residence 
in a leafy region on the other side of the Tweed, and so was 
able to make the comparison. But what a different leafage 
that was from this ! That was soft, floating, billowy ; this, 
hard, stiff, and straight-lined, interfering so little with the 
skeleton form, that it needed not to be put off in the wintry 
season of death, to make the trees in harmony with the land- 
scape. A light was burning in the cottage, visible through 
the inner curtain of muslin, and the outer one of frost. As he 
approached the door he heard the sound of a voice, and from 
the even pitch of the tone, he concluded at once that its owner 
was reading aloud. The measured cadence soon convinced him 
that it was verse that was being read ; and the voice was evi- 
dently that of David, and not of Margaret. He knocked at 
the door. The voice ceased, chairs were pushed back, and a 
heavy step approached. David opened the door himself. 

'•Eh! Maister Sutherland” said he, “I thocht it micht 
aiblins be yersel’. Ye’re welcome, sir. Come butt the hoose. 
Our place is but sma’, but ye’ll no min’ sittin’ doon wi’ our ain 
sols. Janet, ooman, this is Maister Sutherlan’. Maggy, my 
doo, he’s a frien’ o’ yours, o’ a day auld, already. Ye’re 
kindly welcome, Maister Sutherlan’. I’m sure it’s verra kin’ 
o’ you to come an’ see the like o’ huz.” 

As Hugh entered, he saw his own bright volume lying on 
the table, evidently that from which David had just been 
reading. 

Margaret had already placed for him a cushioned aim-chair, 


16 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


the only comfortable one in the house ; and presently, the table 
being drawn back, they were all seated round the peat-fire on 
the hearth, — the best sort for keeping feet warm at least. Un 
the crook, or hooked iron chain suspended within the chimney, 
hung a three-footed pot, in which potatoes were boiling away 
merrily for supper. By the side of the wide chimney, or more 
properly lum, hung an iron lamp, of an old classical form 
common to the country, from the beak of which projected, 
almost horizontally, the lighted wick, — the P lt J 1 l of .f ™ 3 ", 
The lio'ht perched upon it was small but clear, and by it David 
had been reading. Margaret sat right under it upon a small 
three-legged wooden stool. Sitting thus, with the light lulling 
on her from above, Hugh could not help thinking she looked 
very pretty. Almost the only object in the distance from 
which the feeble light was reflected was the patchwork coun- 
terpane of a little bed filling a recess in the wall, fitted with 
doors which stood open. It was probably Margaret s refuge 

for the night. , - * 

“Well ” said the tutor, after they had been seated a tew 

minutes, and had had some talk about the weather, — surely no 
despicable subject after such a morning, — the first of spring, 
—“well, how do you like the English poet, Mr. Elgin- 

br °“ Spier that at me this day week, Maister Sutherland an 7 
I’ll aiblins answer ye; but no the nicht, no the nicht. 

“What for no ? ” said Hugh, taking up the dialect. ? 

“ For ae thing, we’re nae clean through wi’ the auld sailor 3 
story yet ; an’ gin I hae learnt ae thing aboon amther, it’s no 
to pass jeedgment upo’ halves. I hae seen ill weather half the 
simmer, an’ athrang corn-yard after an’ a,’ an that o the best. 
No that I’m ill pleased wi’ the bonny ballant aither. 

“ Weel, will ye jist lat me read the lave o’t till ye l 
“ Wi’ muckle pleesur, sir, an’ mony thanks.” 

He showed Hugh how far they had got in the reading of the 
“Ancient Mariner;” whereupon he took up the tale, and 
carried it on to the end. He had some facility in reading with 
expression, and his few affectations- for it must be confessed 
he was not free of such faults — were not of a nature to strike 
uncritical hearers. When he had finished, he looked up, and 
his eye chancing to light upon Margaret first, he saw that her 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


17 


cheek was quite pale, and her eyes overspread with the film, 
not of coming tears, but of emotion notwithstanding. 

“ Well,” said Hugh again, willing to break the silence, and 
turning towards David, “ what do you think of it now you 
have heard it all ? ” 

Whether Janet interrupted her husband or not, I cannot 
tell ; but she certainly spoke first : — 

“ Tshavah ! ” — equivalent to pshaw — “ it’s a’ lees. What 
for are ye knittin’ yer broos ower a leein’ ballant, — a’ havers 
as weel as lees? ” 

“I’m no jist prepared to say sae muckle, Janet,” replied 
David ; “ there’s mony a thing ’at’s lees, as ye ca’t, ’at’s no lees 
a’ through. Ye see, Maister Sutherlan’, I’m no gleg at the 
uptak, an’ it jist taks me twise as lang as ither fowk to see to 
the ootside o’ a thing. Whiles a sentence ’ill leuk to me clean 
nonsense a’thegither; an’ maybe a haill ook efter, it’ll come 
upo’ me a’ at ance ; an’ fegs ! it’s the best thing in a’ the 
beuk.” 

Margaret’s eyes were fixed on her father with a look which 
I can only call faithfulness , as if every word he spoke was 
truth, whether she could understand it or not. 

“ But perhaps we may look too far for meanings sometimes,” 
suggested Sutherland. 

“Maybe, maybe; but when a body has a suspeecion o’ a 
trowth, he sud never lat sit till he’s gotten eyther hit, or an 
assurance that there’s nothing there. But there’s jist ae thing 
in the poem ’at I can pit my finger upo’, an’ say ’at it’s no 
richt clear to me whether it’s a’ straucht-foret or no? ” 

“ What’s that, Mr. Elginbrod? ” 

“It’s jist this: what for a’ thae sailor-men fell doon deid, 
an’ the chield ’at shot the bonnie burdie, an’ did a’ the mis- 
cheef, cam’ to little hurt i’ the en’ — comparateevely.” 

“ Well,” said Hugh, “ I confess I’m not prepared to an- 
swer the question. If you get any light on the subject — ” 

“ Ow, I daur say I may. A heap o’ things comes to me as 
I’m takin’ a daunder by mysel’ i’ the gloamin’. I’ll no say 
a thing’s wrang till I hae tried it ower an’ ower ; for maybe 
I haena a richt grip o’ the thing ava.” 

“ What can ye expec, Dawvid, o’ a leevin’ corp, an’ a’ 
that ? — ay, twa hunner corps — fewer times fifty’s twa hunner 


18 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


— an’ angels turnin’ sailors, an’ sangs gaein fleein’ aboot like 
laverocks, and tummelin’ doon again, tired like? Cui P re 

serve’s a’ ! ” , 

“ Janet, do ye believe ’at ever a serpent spak { 

“ Hoot ! Dawvid, the deil was in him, ye ken.” 

“The deil a word o’ that’s i’ the word itsel’ though, re- 
joined David, with a smile. 

“ Dawvid,” said Janet, solemnly, and with some consterna- 
tion, “ye’re no gaein’ to tell me, sittin’ there, ’at ye dmna 
believe ilka word ’at’s prentit atween the twa brods o the 
Bible? What loill Maister Sutherlan’ think o’ ye? 

“Janet, my bonnie lass,” — and here David’s eyes beamed 
upon his wife,— “ I believe as mony o’ them as ye do, an 
maybe a wheen mair, my dawtie. Keep yer min’ easy aboot 
that. But ye jist see ’at fowk warna a’thegither saitisteed 
aboot a sairpent speikin’, an’ sae they leukit aboot and aboot 
till at last they fand the deil in him. Guid kens whether he 
was there or no. Noo, ye see hoo, gin we was to leuk weel 
aboot thae corps, an’ thae angels, an’ a’ that queer stuff but 
oh ! it’s bonny stuff tee ! — we micht fa’ in wi’ something we 
didna awthegither expec’, though we was leukin’ for’t a’ the 
time. Sae I maun jist think aboot it, Mr. Sutherlan ; an 1 
wad fain read it ower again, afore I lippen on giein’ my opingan 
on the maitter. Ye cud lave the bit beukie, sir? We so 

tak’ guid care o’t.” „ 

“Ye’re verra welcome to that or ony ither beuk 1 nae, 
replied Hugh, who began to feel already as if he were in the 

hands of a superior. , 

“ Mony thanks ; but ye see, sir, we hae eneuch to chow upo 

for an aucht days or so.” 

By this time the potatoes were considered to be cooked, and 
were accordingly lifted off the fire. The water was then 
poured away, the lid put aside, and the pot hung once more, 
upon the crook, hooked a few rings further up in the chimney, 
in order that the potatoes might be thoroughly dry before they 
were served. Margaret was now very busy spreading the 
cloth and laying spoons and plates on the table. Hugh lose 
to go. 

“Will ye no bide,” said Janet, in a most hospitable tone 
“ an’ tak’ a het pitawta wi’ us? ” 


DAVID ELGINBKOD. 


19 


“I’m afraid of being troublesome,” answered he. 

“ Nae fear o’ that, gin ye can jist pit up wi’ oor hamely 
meat.” 

“ Mak nae apologies, Janet, my woman,” said David 
“ A het pitawta’s aye guid fare, for gentle or semple. Sit ye 
doun again, Maister Sutherlan’. Maggy, my doo, whaur's 
the milk?” 

“ I thocht Hawkie wad hae a drappy o’ het milk by this 
time,” said Margaret, “ and sae I jist loot it be to the la it; but 
I’ll hae’t drawn in twa minutes.” And away she went with 
a jug, commonly called a decanter in that part of the north, 
in her hand. 

“ That’s hardly fair play to Ilawkie,” said David to Janet 
with a smile. 

“ Hoot ! Dawvid, ye see we haena a stranger ilka nicht.” 

“ But really,” said Hugh, “ I hope this is the last time you 
will consider me a stranger, for I shall be here a great many 
times, — that is, if you don’t get tired of me.” 

“Gie us the chance at least, Maister Sutherlan’. It’s no 
sma’ preevilege to fowk like us to hae a frien’ wi’ sae muckle 
buik learnin’ as ye hae, sir.” 

“Iam afraid it looks more to you than it really is.” 

11 Weel, ye see, we maun a’ leuk at the starns frae the 
hicht o’ oor ain een. An’ ye seem nigher to them by a lang 
growth than the lave o’s. My man, ye ought to be thankfu’.” 

With the true humility that comes of worshipping the 
truth, David had not the smallest idea that he was immeas- 
urably nearer to the stars than Hugh Sutherland. 

Maggie having returned with her jug full of frothy milk 
and the potatoes being already heaped up in a wooden bowl or 
bossie in the middle of the table, sending the smoke of their 
hospitality to the rafters, Janet placed a smaller wooden bowl, 
called a caup , filled with deliciously yellow milk of Hawkie’s 
latest gathering, for each individual of the company, with an 
attendant horn-spoon by its side. They all drew their chairs 
to the table, and David, asking no blessing as it was called, 
but nevertheless giving thanks for the blessing already be- 
stowed, namely, the perfect gift of food, invited Hugh to make 
a supper. Each, in primitive but not ungraceful fashion, took 
a potato from the dish with the fingers, and ate it, “ bite and 


20 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


sup,” with the help of the horn-spoon for the milk. Hugh 
thought he had never supped more pleasantly, and could not 
help*observing how far real good-breeding is independent of 
the forms and refinements of what has assumed to itself the 

name of society . . 

Soon after supper was over, it was time for him to go ; so, 
after kind hand-shakings and good nights, David accompanied 
him to the road, where he left him to find his way home by 
the starlight. As he went, he could not help pondering a 
little over the fact that a laboring man had discovered a diffi- 
culty, perhaps a fault, in one of his favorite poems, which had 
never suggested itself to him. He soon satisfied himself, 
however, by coming to the conclusion that the poet had not 
cared about the matter at all, having had no further intention 
in the poem than Hugh himself had found in it, namely , 
witchery and loveliness. But it seemed to the young student 
a wonderful fact, that the intercourse which was denied him m 
the laird’s family, simply from their utter incapacity of yield- 
ing it, should be afforded him in the family of a man who had 
followed the plough himself once, perhaps did so still, having 
risen only to be the overseer and superior assistant of laborers. 
He certainly felt, on his way home, much more reconciled to 
the prospect of his sojourn at Turriepuffit than he would have 
thought it possible he ever should. 

David lingered a few moments, looking up at the. stars, be- 
fore he re-entered his cottage. When he rejoined his wife and 
child, he found the Bible already open on the table for their 
evening devotions. I will close this chapter, as I began the 
first, with something like his prayer. David’s prayers were 
characteristic of the whole man ; but they also partook, in far 
more than ordinary, of the mood of the moment. His last 
occupation had been star-gazing : — . " 

“ 0 Thou, wha keeps the stars alicht, an’ our souls burnin 
wi’ a licht aboon that o’ the stars, grant that they may shine 
afore thee as the stars forever and ever. An’ as thou hauds 
the stars burnin’ a’ the nicht, whan there's no man to see, so 
haud thou the licht burnin’ in our souls, whan we see neither 
thee nor it, but are buried in the grave o’ sleep an’ forgetfu’- 
ness. Be thou by us, 3 ven as a mother sits by the bedside 
o’ her ailin’ wean a’ the lang nicht ; only be thou nearer to us, 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


21 


even in our verra souls, an’ watch ower the warl’ o’ dreams 
that they mak’ for themsels’. Grant that more an’ more 
thochts o’ thy thinkin’ may come into our herts day by day, 
till there shall be at last an open road atween thee an’ us, an’ 
thy angels may ascend and descend upon us, so that we may 
be in thy heaven, e’en while we are upo’ thy earth : Amen ” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE STUDENTS. 

In wood and stone, not the softest, but hardest, be always aptest for portraiture, 
both fairest for pleasure, and most durable for profit. Hard wits be hard to receive, 
but sure to keep; painful without weariness, heedful without wavering, constant 
without new- fangleness; bearing heavy things, though not lightly, yet willingly ; 
entering hard things, though not easily, yet deeply; and so come to that perfectness 
of learning in the end, that quick wits seem in hope but do not in deed, or else very 
seldom ever attain unto. — Roger Ascham. — The Schoolmaster. 


Two or three very simple causes united to prevenc Hugh 
from repeating his visit to David so soon as he would other- 
wise have done. One was, that, the fine weather continuing, 
he was seized with the desire of exploring the neighborhood. 
The spring, which sets some wild animals to the construction 
of new dwellings, incites man to the enlarging of his, making, 
as it were, by discovery, that which lies around him his own. 
So he spent the greater parts of several evenings in wandering 
about the neighborhood ; till at length the moonlight failed 
him. Another cause was, that in the act of searching for 
some books for his boys in an old garret of the house, which 
was at once lumber-room and library, he came upon some 
stray volumes of the Waverley novels, with which he was as 
yet only partially acquainted. These absorbed many of his 
spare hours. But one evening, while reading the “Heart of 
Midlothian,” the thought struck him, what a character David 
would have been for Sir Walter ! Whether he was right or 
not is a question ; but the notion brought David so vividly 
before him, that it roused the desire to see him. He closed 
the book at once, and wont to the cottage. 


22 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ We’re no lik’ly to ca’ ye onything but a sti mger yet, 
Maister Sutherlan’,” said David, as he entered. 

u I’ve been busy since I saw you,” was all the excuse Hugh 

offered. # . 

a Weel, ye’re welcome noo ; and ye’ve jist come in time alter 
a’, for it’s no that mony hours sin’ I fand it oot awthegither 
to my ain settisfaction.” 

u Found out what?” said Hugh ; for he had forgotten all 
about the perplexity in which he had left David, and which 
had been occupying his thoughts ever since their last inter- 
view. 

“Aboot the cross-bow an’ the birdie, ye ken, answered 
David, in a tone of surprise. 

“ Yes, to be sure. How stupid of me!” said Hugh. 

“ Weel, ye see, the meanin’ o’ the haill ballant is no that 
ill to win at, seein’ the poet himsel’ tells us that. It’s jist no 
to be proud or ill-natured to oor neebours, the beasts and birds, 
for God made ane an’ a’ o’s. But there’s harder things in’t 
nor that, and yon’s the hardest. But ye see it was jist an un- 
lucky thochtless deed 0’ the puir auld sailor’s, an’ I’m Blinkin’ 
he was sair reprocht in’s hert the minit he did it. His mates 
was fell angry at him, no’ for killin’ the puir innocent craytur, 
but for fear 0’ ill luck in consequence. Syne whan nane fol- 
lowed, they turned richt roun’, an’ took awa’ the character o 
the puir beastie efter ’twas deid. They appruved o’ the verra 
thing ’at he was nae doot sorry for. But onything to baud 
aff o’ themsels ! Nae suner cam the calm, than roun’ they 
gaed again like the weathercock, an’ naething wad content 
them bit hingin’ the deid craytur about the auld man’s craig, 
an’ abusin’ him forby. Sae ye see hoo they war a wheen 
selfish crayters, an’ a hantle waur nor the man ’at was led 
astray into an ill deed. But still he maun rue’t. Sae Death 
got them,, an’ a kin’ o’ leevin Death, a she Death as ’twar, an 
in some respecks may be waur than the ither, got grips o’ him, 
puir auld body ! It’s a’ fair an’ richt to the backbane 0 the 
ballant, Maister Sutherlan’, an’ that I’se uphaud.” 

Hugh could not help feeling considerably astonished to hear 
this criticism from the lips of one whom he considered an un- 
educated man. For he did not know that there are many 
other educations besides a college one, some of them tending 


DAVID ELGiNBROD. 


23 


far more than that to develop the common sense, or faculty 
of judging of things by their nature. Life intelligently met, 
and honestly passed, is the best education of all; except that 
higher one to which it is intended to lead, and to which it had 
led David. Both these educations, however, were nearly un- 
known to the student of books. But he was still more aston- 
ished to hear from the lips of Margaret, who was sitting by : — 

“ That’s it, father ; that’s it ! I was jist ettlin’ efter that 
same thing mysel’, or something like it, but ye put it in the 
richt words exackly.” 

The sound of her voice drew Hugh’s eyes upon her ; he was 
astonished at the alteration in her countenance. While she 
spoke, it was absolutely beautiful. As soon as she ceased 
speaking, it settled back into its former shadowless calm. Her 
father gave her one approving glance and nod, expressive of 
no surprise at her having approached the same discovery as 
himself, but testifying pleasure at the coincidence of their 
opinions. Nothing was left for Hugh but to express his satis- 
faction with the interpretation of the difficulty, and to add that 
the poem would henceforth possess fresh interest for him. 

After this, his visits became more frequent ; and at length 
David made a request which led to their greater frequency still. 
It was to this effect : — 

“ Do ye think, Mr. Sutherland I could do ony thing at my 
age at the mathematics? I unnerstan’ weel eneuch hoo to 
measur’ lan’, an’ that kin’ o’ thing. I jist follow the rule. 
But the rule itsel’s a puzzler to me. I dinna understan’ it by 
half. Noo it seems to me that the best o’ a rule is, no to male 
ye able to do a thing, but to lead ye to what maks the rule 
richt, — to the prenciple o’ the thing. It’s no ’at I’m mis- 
believin’ the rule, but I want to see the richts o’t.” 

“ I’ve no doubt you could learn fast enough,” replied Hugh. 
11 1 shall be very happy to help you with it.” 

“ Na, na; I’m no gaein’ to trouble you. Ye hae eneuch to 
do in that way. But if ye could jist spare me ane or twa o’ 
yer beuks whiles, ony o’ them ’at ye think proper, I sud be 
muckle obleeged te ye.” 

Hugh promised and fulfilled ; but the result was, that before 
long, both the father and the daughter were seated at the 
kitchen- table, every evening, busy with Euclid and Algebra; 


24 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


and that, on most evenings, Hugh was present as their instruc- 
tor. It was quite a new pleasure to nim. Few delights sur- 
pass those of imparting knowledge to the eager recipient. 
What made Hugh’s tutor-life irksome, was partly the excess 
of his desire to communicate, over the desire of his pupils to 
partake. But here there was no labor. All the questions 
were asked by the scholars. A single lesson had not passed, 
however, before David put questions which Hugh was unable 
to answer, and concerning which he was obliged to confess his 
ignorance. Instead of being discouraged, as eager questioners 
are very ready to be when they receive no answer, David mere- 
ly said, “Weel, weel, we maun bide a wee,” and went on with 
what he was able to master. Meantime Margaret, though 
forced to lag a good way behind her father, and to apply much 
more frequently to their tutor for help, yet secured all she got ; 
and that is great praise for any student. She was not by any 
means remarkably quick, hut she knew when she did not un- 
derstand ; and that is a sure and indispensable step towards 
understanding. It is, indeed, a rarer gift than the power of 
understanding itself. 

The gratitude of David was too deep to be expressed in any 
formal thanks. It broke out at times in two or three simple 
words when the conversation presented an opportunity, or 
in the midst of their work, as by its own self-birth, ungen- 
erated by association. 

During the lesson, which often lasted more than two hours, 
Janet would be busy about the room, and in and out of it, with 
a manifest care to suppress all unnecessary bustle. As soon 
as Hugh made his appearance, she would put off the stout shoes, 
— man’s shoes, as we should consider them — which she al- 
ways wore at other times, and put on a pair of bauchles / that 
is, an old pair of her Sunday shoes, put down at heel, and so 
converted into slippers, with which she could move about less 
noisily. At times her remarks would seem to imply that she 
considered it rather absurd in her husband to trouble himself 
with book-learning ; but evidently on the ground that he knew 
everything already that was worthy of the honor of his ac- 
quaintance ; whereas, with regard to Margaret, her heart was 
as evidently full of pride aj the idea of the education hef 
daughter was getting from the laird’s own tutor. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


25 


Now and then she would stand still for a moment, and gaze 
at them, with her bright black eyes, from under the white 
frills of her mutch , her bare brown arms akimbo, and a look 
of pride upon her equally brown, honest face. 

Her dress consisted of a wrapper, or short loose jacket, of 
printed calico, and a blue winsey petticoat, which she had a 
habit of tucking between her knees, to keep it out of harm’s 
way, as often as she stooped to any wet work, or, more espe- 
cially, when doing anything by the fire. Margaret’s dress was, 
in ordinary, like her mother’s, with the exception of the cap ; 
but every evening when their master was expected she put 
off her wrapper, and substituted a gown of the same material, 
a cotton print ; and so, with her plentiful dark hair gathered 
neatly under a net of brown silk, — the usual head-dress of girls 
in her position, both in and out of doors, — sat down dressed for 
the sacrament of wisdom. David made no other preparation 
than the usual evening washing of his large, well-wrought hands, 
and bathing of his head, covered with thick dark hair, plenti- 
fully lined with gray, in a tub of cold water ; from w T hich his 
face, which was “ cremsin dyed ingray ne ” by the weather, 
emerged glowing. He sat down at the table in his usual rough 
blue coat and plain brass buttons, with his breeches of broad- 
striped corduroy, his blue-ribbed stockings, and leather gaiters, 
or cuiticans, disposed under the table, and his shoes, with five 
rows of broad-headed nails in the soles, projecting from beneath 
it on the other side ; for he was a tall man, — six feet still, al- 
though five and fifty, and considerably bent in the shoulders 
with hard work. Sutherlands style was that of a gentleman 
who must wear out his dress-coat. 

Such was the group which, three or four evenings in the 
week, might be seen in David Elginbrod’s cottage, seated 
around the white deal table, with their books and slates upon 
it, and searching, by the light of a tallow candle, substituted, 
as more convenient, for the ordinary lamp, afte* the mysteries 
of the universe. 

The influences of reviving nature and of genial companion- 
ship operated very favorably upon Hugh’s spirits, and conse- 
quently upon his whole powers. For some time he had, as I 
have already hinted, succeeded in interesting his boy pupils in 
their studies ; and now the progress they made began to be 


26 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


appreciable to themselves as well as to their tutor. This of 
course made them more happy and more diligent. There were 
no attempts now to work upon their parents for a holiday ; no 
real or pretended head or tooth aches, whose disability was 
urged against the greater torture of ill-conceded mental labor. 
They began, in fact, to understand ; and, in proportion to the 
beauty and value of the thing understood, to understand is to 
enjoy. Therefore the laird and his lady could not help seeing 
that the boys were doing well, — far better, in fact, than they 
had ever done before ; and, consequently, began not only to 
prize Hugh’s services, but to think more highly of his office 
than had been their wont. The laird would now and then 
invite him to join him in a tumbler of toddy after dinner, or in a 
ride round the farm after school hours. But it must be con- 
fessed that these approaches to friendliness were rather irk- 
some to Hugh ; for, whatever the laird might have been as a 
collegian, he was certainly now nothing more than a farmer. 
Where David Elginbrod would have descried many a “bonny 
sicht,” the laird only saw the probable results of harvest, in 
the shape of figures in his banking-book. On one occasion 
Hugh roused his indignation by venturing to express his ad- 
miration of the delightful mingling of colors in a field where a 
good many scarlet poppies grew among the green blades of the 
corn, indicating, to the agricultural eye, the poverty of the 
soil where they were found. This fault in the soil, the laird, 
like a child, resented upon the poppies themselves. 

“ Nasty, ugly weyds ! We’ll hae ye admirin’ the smut 
neist,” said he, contemptuously ; “ ’cause the bairns can bleck 
ane anither’s faces wi't.” 

“But surely,” said Hugh, “putting other considerations 
aside, you must allow that the color, especially when mingled 
with that of the corn, is beautiful.” 

“ Deil hae’t ! It’s jist there ’at I canna bide the sicht o’t 
Beauty ye may ca’t ! I see nane o’t. I’d as sune hae a 
reid-heedit bairn, as see the reid-coatit rascals i’ my corn. I 
houp ye’re no gaein’ to cram stuff like that into the heeds o 
the twa laddies. Faith ! we’ll hae them sawin’ thae ill-faured 
weyds amang the wheyt neist. Poapies ca’ ye them? Weel 
I wat they’re the Popp’s ain bairns, an’ the scarlet wumman 
to the mither o’ them. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


27 


Having manifested both wit and Protestantism in the closing 
sentence of his objurgation, the laird relapsed into good humor 
and stupidity. Hugh would gladly have spent such hours in 
David’s cottage instead ; but he was hardly prepared to refuse 
his company to Mr. Glasford. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE LAIRD’S LADY. 

Ye archewyves, standith at defence, 

Syn ye been strong, as is a great camayle; 

Ne suffer not that men you don offence. 

And slender wives, fell as in battaile, 

Beth eager, as is a tiger, yond in Inde; 

Aye clappith as a mill, I you counsaile. 

Chaucer. — The Clerk’s Tale. 


The length and frequency of Hugh’s absences, careless as 
she was of his presence, had already attracted the atten- 
tion of Mrs. Glasford; and very little trouble had to be 
expended on the discovery of his haunt. For the servants 
knew well enough where he went, and of course had come to 
their own conclusions as to the object of his visits. So the 
lady chose to think it her duty to expostulate with Hugh on 
the subject. Accordingly, one morning after breakfast, the 
laird having gone to mount his horse, and the boys to have a 
few minutes’ play before lessons, Mrs. Glasford, who had kept 
her seat at the head of the table, waiting for the opportunity, 
turned towards Hugh, who sat reading the week’s news, folded 
her hands on the tablecloth, drew herself up yet a little more 
stiffly in her chair, and thus addressed him : — 

“It’s my duty, Mr. Sutherland, seein’ ye have no mother 
to look after ye — ” 

Hugh expected something matronly about his linen or his 
socks, and put down his newspaper with a smile ; but, to his 
astonishment, she went on : — 

— “ To remonstrate wi’ ye, on the impropriety of going so 


23 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


often to David Elginbrod’s. They’re not company for a young 
gentleman like you, Mr. Sutherland/’ 

u They’re good company enough for a poor tutor, Mrs. 
Glasford,” replied Hugh, foolishly enough. 

“Not at all, not at all,” insisted the lady. “ With ycur 
connexions — ” 

11 Good gracious ! whoever said anything about my connex- 
ions ? I never pretended to have any.” Hugh was getting 
angry already. 

Mrs. Glasford nodded her head significantly, as much as to 
say, “ I know more about you than you imagine,” and then 
went on : — 

u Your mother will never forgive me if you get into a scrape 
with that smooth-faced hussy ; and if her father, honest man, 
hasn’t eyes enough in his head, other people have, ay, an’ 
tongues too, Mr. Sutherland.” 

Hugh was on the point of forgetting his manners, and con- 
signing all the above-mentioned organs to perdition ; but he 
managed to restrain his wrath, and merely said that Margaret 
was one of the best girls he had ever known, and that there 
was no possible danger of any kind of scrape with her. This 
mode of argument, however, was not calculated to satisfy Mrs. 
Glasford. She returned to the charge. 

<• She’s a sly puss, with her shy airs and graces. Her 
father’s jist daft wi’ conceit o’ her, an’ it’s no to be surprised 
if she cast a glamour ower you. Mr. Sutherland, ye’re but 
young yet.” 

Hurii’s pride presented any alliance with a lassie who had 
herded the laird’s cows barefoot, and even now tended their 
own cow, as an all but inconceivable absurdity ; and he 
resented, more than he could have thought possible, the enter- 
tainment of such a degrading idea in the mind of Mrs. Gias- 
ford. Indignation prevented him from replying; while she 
went on, getting more vernacular as she proceeded. 

“ It’s no for lack of company ’at yer driven to seek theirs, 
I’m sure. There’s twa as fine lads an’ gude scholars as ye’ll 
fin’ in the haill kintra-side, no to mention the laird and 
mysel’.” 

But Hugh could bear it no longer ; nor would he condescend 
to excuse or explain his conduct. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


29 


“Madam, I beg you will not menticn this subject again.’ * 

“ But I ivill mention’ t, Mr. Sutlierlan’ ; an’ if ye’ll no 
listen to rizzon, I’ll go to them ’at maun do’t.” 

“ I am accountable to you, madam, for my conduct in your 
house, and for the way in which I discharge my duty to your 
children, — no further.” 

“ Do ye ca’ that dischairgin’ yer duty to my bairns, to sf t 
them the example o’ hingin’ at a quean’s apron-strings, and 
filling her lug wi’ idle havers? Ca’ ye that dischairgin’ yer 
duty ? My certie ! a bonny dischairgin’ ! ” 

“ I never see the girl but in her father and mother’s pres- 
ence.” 

“Weel, weel, Mr. Sutherlan’,” said Mrs. Glasford, in a 
final tone, and trying to smother the anger which she felt she 
had allowed to carry her further than was decorous, “we’ll 
say nae mair aboot it at present; but I maun jist speak to the 
laird himsel’, an’ see what he says till’t.” 

And with this threat she walked out of the room in what 
she considered a dignified manner. 

Hucdi was exceedingly annoyed at this treatment, and 
thought, at first, of throwing up his situation at once ; but he 
got calmer by degrees, and saw that it would be to his own 
loss, and perhaps to the injury of his friends at the cottage. 
So he took his revenge by recalling the excited face of Mrs. 
Glasford, whose nose had got as red with passion as the protu- 
berance of a turkey-cock when gobbling out its unutterable 
feelings of disdain. He dwelt upon this soothing contempla- 
tion till a fit of laughter relieved him, and he was able to go 
and join his pupils as if nothing had happened. 

Meanwhile the lady sent for David, who was at work in the 
garden, into no less an audience-chamber than the drawing- 
room, the revered abode of all the tutelar deities of the house , 
chief amongst which were the portraits of the laird and her- 
self : he, plethoric and wrapped in voluminous folds of necker- 
chief ; she, long-necked, and lean, and bare-shouldered. The 
original of the latter work of art seated herself in the most 
important chair in the room ; and when David, after carefully 
wiping the shoes he had already wiped three times on his way 
up, entered with a respectful but nowise obsequious bow, she 
ordered him, with the air of an emyress, to shut the door 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


su 

When he had obeyed, she ordered him, in a similar tone, to be 
seated ; for she sought to mingle condescension and conciliation 
with severity. 

a David,” she then began, “I am informed that ye keep 
open door to our Mr. Sunderland, and that he spends most 
forenichts in your company.’’ 

* : Weel, mem, it’s verra true,” was all David’s answer. 
He sat in an expectant attitude. 

“ Dawvid, I wonner at ye!” returned Mrs. Glasford, for- 
getting her dignity, and becoming confidentially remonstrative. 
“ Here’s a young gentleman o’ talans, wi’ ilka prospeck o’ 
waggin’ his heid in a poopit some day, an’ ye aid an’ abet him 
in idlin’ awa’ his time at your chimla-lug, duin’ waur nor nae- 
thing ava ! I’m surprised at ye, Dawvid. I thocht ye had 
mair sense.” 

David looked out of his clear, blue, untroubled eyes, upoi 
the ruffled countenance of his mistress, with an almost pa, 
ternal smile. 

1 4 Weel, mem, I maun say I dinna jist think the young 
man’s in the warst o’ company, whan he’s at our ingle-neuk. 
An’ for idlin’ o’ his time awa’, it's weel waured for himsel’, 
forby for us, gin holy words binna lees.” 

What do ye mean, Dawvid? ” said the lady, rather sharp- 
ly, for she loved no riddles. 

“I mean this, mem : that the young man is jist actin’ the 
pairt o’ Peter an’ John at the bonny gate o’ the temple, whan 
they said, 1 Such as I have, gie I thee ; ’ an’ gin’ it be more 
blessed to gie than to receive, as Sant Paul says ’at the Mais- 
ter himsel’ said, the young man’ill no be the waur aff in’s 
ain learnin’, that he impairts o’t to them that hunger for’t.” 

“ Ye mean by this, Dawvid, gin ye could express yersel’ to 
the pint, ’at the young man, wha’s ower weel paid to instruck 
my bairns, neglecks them, an’ lays himsel’ oot upo’ ither 
fowk’s weans, wha hae no richt to ettle aboon the station in 
which their Maker pat them.” 

' This was uttered with quite a religious fervor of expostu- 
lation; for the lady’s natural indignation at the thought of 
Meg Elginbrod having lessons from her boys’ tutor, was cowed 
beneath the quiet, steady gaze of the noble-minded peasant father. 

“ He lays himsel’ oot mair upo’ the ither fowk themsels 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


81 


&au upo’ their weans, mem ; though, nae doubt, my Maggy 
comes in for a gude share. But for negleckin’ o’ his duty to 
you, mem, I’m sure I kenna hoo that can be ; for it was only 
yestreen ’at the laird himsel’ said to me, ’at hoo the bairns 
had never gotten on naething like it wi’ ony ither body.” 

“ The laird’s ower ready wi’s clavers,” quoth the laird’s 
wife, nettled to find herself in the wrong, and forgetful of her 
own and her lord’s dignity at once. “ But,” she pursued, 
“ all I can say is, that I consider it verra improper o’ you, wi’ 
a young lass-bairn, to encourage the nichtly veesits o’ a young 
gentleman, wha’s sae far aboon her in station, an’ dootless will 
some day be farther yet.” 

“ Mem ! ” said David, with dignity, “ I’m willin’ no to un- 
derstan’ what ye mean. My Maggy’s no ane ’at needs luikin’ 
efter ; an’ a body had need to be carefu’ an’ no interfere wi’ 
the Lord’s herdin’, for he ca’s himsel’ the Shepherd o’ the 
sheep ; an’ weel as I loe her I maun lea’ him to lead them 
wha follow him wherever he goeth. She’ll no be ill guidit, 
and I’m no gaein’ to kep her at ilka turn.” 

“ Weel, weel ! that’s yer ain affair, Dawvid, my man,” re- 
joined Mr3. Glasford, with rising voice and complexion. 
“ A’ ’at I hae to add is jist this : ’at as lang as my tutor vees- 
its her — ” 

“ He veesits her no more than me, mem,” interposed David ; 
but his mistress went on with dignified disregard of the inter- 
ruption. 

— “ Veesits her, Icanna, for the sake o’ my own bairns, an’ 
the morals o’ my hoosehold, employ her aboot the hoose, as I 
was in the way o’ doin’ afore. Gude-mornin’, Dawvid. I’ll 
speak to the laird himsel’, sin’ ye’ll no heed me.” 

“It’s more to my lassie, mem, excuse me, to learn to un- 
nerstan’ the works o’ her Maker, than it is to be employed in 
your household. Mony thanks, mem, for what yo hev’ done 
in that way afore ; an’ gude-mornin’ to ye, mem. I’m sorry 
we should hae ony misunderstandin’, but I canna help it for 
my pairt.” 

With these words David withdrew, rather anxious about 
the consequences to Hugh of this unpleasant interference on 
the part of Mrs. Glasford. That lady’s wrath kept warm 
without much nursing, till the laird came home ; when sho 


32 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


turned the whole of her battery upon him, and kept up a 
steady fire until he yielded, and promised to turn his upon 
David. But he had more common sense than his wife in some 
things, and saw at once how ridiculous it would be to treat 
the affair as of importance. So, the next time he saw David, 
he addressed him half jocularly : — 

“ Weel, Dawvid, you an’ the mistress hae been haein a bit 
o’ a dispute thegither, eh ? ” 

“Weel, sir, we warna a’thegither o’ ae min’,” said David, 
with a smile. 

“ Weel, weel, we maun humor her, ye ken, or it may be 
the waur for us a’, ye ken.” And the laird nodded with hu- 
morous significance. 

“I’m sure I sud be glaid, sir ; but this is no sma’ maitter 
to me an’ my Maggie, for we’re jist gettin’ food for the very 
sowl, sir, frae him an’ his beuks.” 

“ Cudna ve be content wi’ the beuks wi’out the man, Daw- 
vid ? ” 

“ We sud mak’ but sma’ progress, sir, that get.” 

The laird began to be a little nettled himself at David’s 
stiffness about such a small matter, and held his peace. Da- 
vid resumed : — 

“ Besides, sir, that’s a maitter for the young man to sattle, 
an’ no for me. It wad ill become me, efter a’ he’s dune for 
us, to steek the door in’s face. Na, na ; as lang’s I hae a 
door to haud open, it’s no to be steekit to him.” 

“ Efter a’, the door’s mine, Dawvid,” said the laird. 

“ As lang’s I’m in your hoose an’ in your service, sir, the 
door’s mine,” retorted David, quietly. 

The laird turned and rode away without another word. 
What passed between him and his wife never transpired. Noth- 
ing more was said to Hugh as long as he remained at Tur- 
riepuffit. But Margaret was never sent for to the house af- 
ter this, upon any occasion whatever. The laird gave her a 
nod as often as he saw her ; but the lady, if they chanced to 
meet, took no notice of her. Margaret, on her part, stood or 
passed with her eyes on the ground, and no further change of 
countenance than a slight flush of discomfort. 

The lessons went on as usual, and happy hours they were 
for all those concerned. Often, in after years, and in far dif- 


DAVID ELGINBROD 


33 


ferent circumstances, the thoughts of Hugh reverted, with a 
painful yearning, to the dim-lighted cottage, with its clay 
floor and its deal table ; to the earnest pair seated with him at 
the labors that unfold the motions of the stars ; and even to 
the homely, thick-set, but active form of Janet, and that pe- 
culiar smile of hers with which, after an apparently snappish 
speech, spoken with her back to the person addressed, she 
would turn round her honest face half-apologetically, and 
shine full upon some one or other of the three, whom she hon 
ored with her whole heart and soul, and who, she feared, 
might be offended at what she called her “ hame-ower fashion 
of speaking.” Indeed it was wonderful what a share the 
motherhood of this woman, incapable as she was of entering 
into the intellectual occupations of the others, had in produc- 
ing that sense of home-blessedness, which inwrapt Hugh also 
in the folds of its hospitality, and drew him towards its heart. 
Certain it is that not one of the three would have worked so 
well without the sense of the presence of Janet, here and there 
about the room, or in the immediate neighborhood of it, — love 
watching over labor. Once a week, always on Saturday 
nights, Hugh stayed to supper with them ; and on these oc- 
casions, Janet contrived to have something better than or- 
dinary in honor of their guest. Still it was of the homeliest 
country fare, such as Hugh could partake of without the least 
fear that his presence occasioned any inconvenience to his en- 
tertainers. Nor was Hugh the only giver of spiritual food. 
Putting aside the rich gifts of human affection and sympathy, 
which grew more and more pleasant — I can hardly use a 
stronger word yet — to Hugh every day, many things were 
spoken by the simple wisdom of David, which would have en- 
lightened Hugh far more than they did, had he been sufficient- 
ly advanced to receive them. But their very simplicity was 
often far beyond the grasp of his thoughts ; for the higher we 
rise, the simpler we become ; and David was one of those of 
whom is the kingdom of heaven. There is a childhood into 
which we have to grow, just as there is a childhood which we 
must leave behind ; a childlikeness which is the highest gain of 
humanity, and a childishness from which but few of those who 
are counted the wisest among men have freed themselv^ in 
their imagined progress towards the reality of things. 

3 


84 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE SECRET OF THE WOOD. 

The unthrift sunne shot vitall gold, 

A thousand pieces; 

And heaven its azure did unfold, 

Chequered with snowy fleeces. 

The air was all in spice, 

And every bush 

A garland wore : Thus fed my Eye*, 

But all the Earo lay hush. 

Henry Vaughan. 

It was not in mathematics alone that Hugh Sutherland was 
serviceable to Margaret Elginbrod. That branch of study had 
been chosen for her father, not for her ; but her desire to learn 
had led her to lay hold upon any mental provision with which 
the table happened to be spread ; and the more eagerly that 
her father was a guest at the same feast. Before long, Hugh 
bethought him that it might possibly be of service to her, in 
the course of her reading, if he taught her English a little 
more thoroughly than she had probably picked it up at the 
parish school, to which she had been in the habit of going till 
within a very short period of her acquaintance with the tutor. 
The English reader must not suppose the term parish school 
to mean what the same term would mean if used in England. 
Boys and girls of very different ranks go to the Scotch parish 
schools, and the fees are so small as to place their education 
within the reach of almost the humblest means. To his pro- 
posal to this effect Margaret responded thankfully ; and it 
gave Hugh an opportunity of directing her attention to many 
of the more delicate distinctions in literature, for the apprecia- 
tion of which she manifested at once a remarkable aptitude. . 

Coleridge’s poems had been read long ago ; some of them, in- 
deed, almost committed to memory in the process of repeated 
perusal. No doubt a good many of them must have been as 
yet too abstruse for her ; not in the least, however, from in- 
aptitude in her for such subjects as they treated of, but simply 
because neither the terms nor the modes of thought could pos- 
sibly have been as yet presented to her in so many different 
positions as to enable her to comprehend their scope. Hugh 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


35 


lent her Sir Walter’s poems next; but those she read at an eya 
glance. She returned the volume in a week, saying merely, 
they were “verrabonnie stories.” He saw at once that, to 
have done them justice with the girl, he ought to have lent 
them first. But that could not be helped now; and what 
should come next? Upon this he took thought. His library 
was too small to cause much perplexity of choice, but for a few 
days he continued undecided. 

Meantime the interest he felt in his girl-pupil deepened 
greatly. She became a kind of study to him. The expression 
of her countenance was far inferior to her intelligence and 
power of thought. It was still to excess, — almost dull in 
ordinary; not from any fault in the mould of the features, 
except, perhaps, in the upper lip, which seemed deficient in 
drawing, if I may be allowed the expression ; but from the 
absence of that light which indicates the presence of active 
thought and feeling within. In this respect her face was like 
the earthen pitcher of Gideon : it concealed the light. She 
seemed to have, to a peculiar degree, the faculty of retiring 
inside. But now and then, while he was talking to her, and 
doubtful, from the lack of expression, whether she was even 
listening with attention to what he was saying, her face would 
lighten up with a radiant smile of intelligence ; not, however, 
throwing the light upon him, and in a moment reverting to its 
former condition of still twilight. Her person seemed not to 
be as yet thoroughly possessed or informed by her spirit. It 
6at apart within her ; and there wa-s no ready transit from her 
heart to her face. This lack of presence in the face is quite 
common in pretty school-girls and rustic beauties ; but it was 
manifest to an unusual degree in the case of Margaret. Yet 
most of the forms and lines in her face were lovely ; and when 
the light did shine through them for a passing moment, her 
countenance seemed absolutely beautiful. Hence it grew into 
an almost haunting temptation with Hugh to try to produce 
this expression, to unveil the coy light of the beautiful soul. 
Often he tried ; often he failed, and sometimes he succeeded. 
Had they been alone, it might have become dangerous — I 
mean for Hugh ; I cannot tell for Margaret. 

When they first met, she had just completed her seventeenth 
year : but, at an age when a town-bred girl is all but a woman, 


36 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


her manners were those of a child. This childishness, how- 
ever, soon began to disappear, and the peculiar stillness of her 
face of which I have already said so much, made her seem 
older than she was. 

It was now early summer, and all the other trees in the 
WO od _ of which there were not many besides the firs of various 
kinds — had put on their fresh leaves, heaped up in green 
clouds between the wanderer and the heavens. In the morning 
the sun shone so clear upon these, that, to the eyes of one 
standing beneath, the light seemed to dissolve them away to 
the most ethereal forms of glorified foliage. They were to be 
claimed for earth only by the shadows that the one cast upon 
the other, visible from below through the transparent leaf. 
This effect is very lovely in the young season of the year, when 
the leaves are more delicate and less crowded ; and especially 
in the early morning, when the light is most clear and pene- 
trating. By the way I do not think any man is compelled to 
bid good-by to his childhood : every man may feel young in 
the morning, middle-aged in the afternoon, and old at night. 
A day corresponds to a life, and the portions of the one are 
4 i pictures in little” of the seasons of the other. Thus far 
man may rule even time, and gather up, in a perfect being, 
youth and age at once. 

One morning, about six o’clock, Hugh, who had never been 
so early in the wood since the day he met Margaret there, 
was standing under a beech-tree, looking up through its mul- 
titudinous leaves, illuminated, as I have attempted to describe, 
with the sidelong rays of the biilliant sun. He was feeling 
youno 1 , and observing the forms of nature with a keen, dis- 
criminating gaze : that was all. Fond of writing verses, he 
was studying nature, not as a true lover, but as one who would 
hereafter turn his discoveries to use. For it must be con- 
fessed that nature affected him chiefly through the medium of 
poetry ; and that he was far more ambitious of writing beauti- 
ful things about nature than of discovering and understanding, 
for their own sakes, any of her hidden yet patent meanings. 
Changing his attitude after a few moments, he descried, under 
another beech-tree, not far from him, Margaret, standing and 
looking up fixedly as he had been doing a moment before. He 
approached her, and she, hearing his advance, looked, and saw 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


37 


him, but did not move. He thought he saw the glimmer of 
tears in her eyes. She was the first to speak however. 

“ What were you seeing up there, Mr. Sutherland? ” 

“ 1 was only looking at the bright leaves, and the shadows 
upon them.” 

“ Ah ! I thocht maybe ye had seen something.” 

“ What do you mean, Margaret? ” 

11 1 dinna richtly ken mysel’. But I aye expeck to see 
something in this fir-wood. I’m here maist mornin’s as the 
day dawns, but I’m later the day.” 

“ We were later than usual at our work last night. But 
what kind of thing do you expect to see ? ” 

“ That’s jist what I dinna ken. An’ I canna min’ whan I 
began to come here first, luikin’ for something. I’ve tried 
mony a time, but I canna min’, do what I like.” 

Margaret had never said so much about herself before. I 
can account for it only on the supposition that Hugh had 
gradually assumed in her mind a kind of pastoral superiority, 
which, at a favorable moment, inclined her to impart her 
thoughts to him. But he did not know what to say to this 
strange fact in her history. She went on to say, however, as 
if, having broken the ice, she must sweep it away as well : — 

“ The only thing ’at helps me to account for’t is a picter in 
our auld Bible, o’ an angel sitten’ aneth a tree, and haudin 1 up 
his han’ as gin he were speakin’ to a woman ’at’s stan’in’ afore 
him. Ilka time at I come across that picter, I feel direckly 
as gin I war my lane in this fir-wood here ; sae I suppose that 
when I was a wee bairn, I maun hae come oot some mornin’ 
my lane, wi’ the expectation o’ seein’ an angel here waitin’ for 
me to speak to me like the ane i’ the Bible. But never an 
angel hae I seen. Yet I aye hae an expectation like o’ seein’ 
something, I kenna what ; for the whole place aye seems fu’ 
o’ a presence, an’ it’s a han tie mair to men or the kirk an’ the 
sermon forby ; an’ for the singin’, the soun’ i’ the fir-taps is 
far mair solemn and sweet at the same tim, an’ muckle mair 
like praisin’ o’ Hod than a’ the psalms thegither. But I aye 
think ’at gin I could hear Milton playin’ on’s organ, it would 
be mair like that soun’ o’ mony waters than ony thing else ’at 
I can think o’.” 

Hugh stood and gazed at her in astonishment. To his more 


88 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


refined ear there was a strange incongruity between the some- 
what coarse dialect in which she spoke, and the things she 
uttered in it. Not that he was capable of entering into her 
feelings, much less of explaining them to her. He felt that 
there was something remarkable in them, but attributed both 
the thoughts themselves and their influence on him to an un- 
common and weird imagination. As of such origin, however, 
he was just the one to value them highly. 
u Those are very strange ideas,” he said. 

But what can there be about the wood? The very prim- 
roses — ye brocht me the first this spring yersel’, Mr. Suther- 
land _ come out at the fit o’ the trees, and look at me as if 
they said, ‘ We ken — we ken a’ aboot it ; ’ but never a word 
mair they say. There’s something by ordinar’ in t. 

“ Do you like no other place besides? ” said Hugh, for the 
sake of saying something. 

u Ou, ay, mony ane ; but nane like thi3.” 
u What kind of place do you like best? ” 
u I like places wi’ green grass an’ flowers amo’t.” 

“ You like flowers then ? ” 

“ Like them ! whiles they gar me greet, an’ whiles they gar 
me lauch: but there’s mair i’ them than that, an’ i’ the wood 
too. I canna richtly say my prayers in ony ither place.” 

The Scotch dialect, especially to one brought up in the High- 
lands, was a considerable antidote to the effect of the beauty 
of what Margaret said. 

Suddenly it struck Hugh, that, if Margaret were such an 
admirer of nature, possibly she might enjoy Wordsworth. .He 
himself was as yet incapable of doing him anything like jus- 
tice ; and, with the arrogance of youth, did not hesitate to 
smile at the “ Excursion,” picking out an awkward line here 
and there as especial food for laughter even. But many of his 
smaller pieces he enjoyed very heartily, although not thor- 
oughly, the element of Christian Pantheism, which is their 

soul, being beyond his comprehension, almost perception, as 
yet/ So °he made up his mind, after a moment's reflection, 
that this should be the next author he recommended to his 
pupil. He hoped likewise so to end an interview, in which 
he might otherwise be compelled to confess that he could 
render° Margaret no assistance in he' search after the something 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


39 


in the wood : and he was unwilling to say he could not under- 
stand her ; for a power of universal sympathy was one of those 
mental gifts which Hugh was most anxious to believe he pos- 
sessed. 

“ I will bring you another hook to-night,” said he, “ which 
I think you will like, and which may perhaps help you to find 
out what is in the wood.” 

He said this smiling, half in playful jest, and without any 
idea of the degree of likelihood that there was, notwithstanding 
in what he said. For certainly, Wordsworth, the liigJwpriest 
of nature, though perhaps hardly the apostle of nature, was 
more likely than any other writer to contain something of the 
secret after which Margaret was searching. Whether she can 
find it there may seem questionable. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Margaret, gratefully; but her 
whole countenance looked troubled, as she turned towards her 
home. Doubtless, however, the trouble vanished before she 
reached it, for hers was not a nature to cherish disquietude. 
Hugh, too, went home, rather thoughtful. 

In the evening, he took a volume of Wordsworth, and re- 
paired, according to his wont, to David’s cottage. It was 
Saturday, and he would stay to supper. After they had 
given the usual time to their studies, Hugh setting Margaret 
some exercises in English to write on her slate, while he 
helped David with some of the elements of Trigonometry, and 
again going over these elements with her, while David worked 
out a calculation, — after these were over, and while Janet 
was putting the supper on the table, Hugh pulled out his vol- 
ume, and, without any preface, read them the “Leech-Gatherer.” 
All listened very intently, Janet included, who delayed several 
of the operations, that she might lose no word of the verses ; 
David nodding assent every now and then, and ejaculating ay 1 
ay 1 or e/i, man 1 or producing that strange, muffled sound at 
once common and peculiar to Scotchmen, which cannot be 
expressed in letters by a nearer approach than hm — 7m, 
uttered, if that can be called uttering, with closed lips and 
open nasal passage ; and Margaret, sitting motionless on her 
creepie, with upturned pale face, and eyes fixed upon the lips 
of the reader. When he had ceased, all were silent for a mo- 
ment, when Janet made some little sign of anxiety about hei 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


40 

gupper, which certainly had suffered by the delay. Then, 
without a word, David turned towards the table and gave 
thanks. Turning again to Hugh, wha had risen to place his 
chair, he said : — 

“ That maun be the wark o’ a great poet, Mr. Sutherlan’.” 
“ It’s Wordsworth’s ! ” said Hugh. 

“ Ay ! ay ! That’s Wordsworth’s ! Ay ! Weel, I hae jist 
heard him made mention o’, but I never read word o’ his afore. 
An’ he never repentit o’ that same resolution, I’se warrant, 
’at he eynds aff wi’. Hoo does it gang, Mr. Sutherlan’ ? ” 
Sutherland read : — 

“ *God,’ said I, ‘be my help and stay secure! 

I’ll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor; * ’* 

and added, “ It is said Wordsworth never knew what it was to 
be in want of money all his life.” 

“ Nae doubt, nae doubt : he trusted in Him.” 

It was for the sake of the minute notices of nature, and not 
for the religious lesson, which he now seemed to see for the 
first time, that Hugh had read the poem. He could not help 
being greatly impressed by the confidence with which David 
received the statement he had just made on the authority of 
De Quincey in his unpleasant article about Wordsworth. 
David resumed : — 

“He maun hae had a gleg ’ee o’ his ain, that Maister 
Wordsworth, to notice a’thing that get. Weel he maun hae 
likit leevin’ things, puir maukin an’ a’ — jist like oor Bobbie 
Burns for that. An’ see hoo they a’ ken ane anither, thae 
poets. What says he aboot Burns ? — ye needna tell me, Mr. 
Sutherlan’ j I min’t weel aneuch. He says : — 

“ ‘ Him wha walked in glory an’ in joy, 

Followin’ liis ploo upo’ the muntain-side.’ 

Pair Robbie ! puir Bobbie ! But, man, he was a gran’ chield, 
efter a’ : an’ I trust in God he’s won hame by this ! ” 

Both Janet and Hugh, who had had a very orthodox educa- 
tion, started, mentally, at this strange utterance ; but they saw 
the eye of David solemnly fixed, as if in deep contemplation, 
and lighted in its blue depths with an ethereal brightness, and 
neither of them ventured to speak. Margaret seemed absorbed 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


41 


for the moment in gazing on her father’s face but not in the 
least as if it perplexed her like the fir-wood. To the seeing 
eye, the same kind of expression would have been evident in 
both countenances, as if Margaret's reflected the meaning of 
her father’s; whether through the medium of intellectual sym- 
pathy, or that of the heart only, it would have been hard to 
say. Meantime supper had been rather neglected ; but its 
operations were now resumed more earnestly, and the conver- 
sation became lighter, till at last it ended in hearty laughter, 
and Hugh rose and took his leave. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A SUNDAY MORNING. 

It is the property of good and sound knowledge, to putrifie and dissolve into a 
number of subtle, idle, unwholsome, and (as I may tearme them) vermieulate ques- 
tions; which have indeed a kinde of quicknesse, and life of spirite, but no soundnessa 
of matter, or goodnesse of quality. — Lord Bacon. — Advancement of Learning. 


The following morning, the laird’s family went to church 
as usual, and Hugh went with them. Their walk was first 
across fields, by pleasant footpaths ; and then up the valley of 
a little noisy stream, that obstinately refused to keep Scotch 
Sabbath, praising the Lord after its own fashion. They 
emerged into rather a bleak country before reaching the church, 
which was quite new, and perched on a barren eminence, that 
it might be as conspicuous by its position as it was remarkable 
for its ugliness. One grand aim of the reformers of the Scot- 
tish ecclesiastical modes appears to have been to keep the 
worship pure and the worshippers sincere, by embodying the 
whole in the ugliest forms that could be associated with the 
name of Christianity. It might be wished, however, that 
some of their followers, and amongst them the clergyman of 
the church in question, had been content to stop there, and 
had left the object of worship, as represented by them, in the 
possession of some lovable attribute ; so as not to require a man 


42 


DAVID ELGINBROR 


to love that which is unlovable, or worship that which is not 
honorable, — in a word, to bow down before that which is not 
divine. The cause of this degeneracy they share in common 
with the followers of all other great men as well as of Calvin. 
They take up what their leader, urged by the necessity of the 
time, spoke loudest, never heeding what he loved most ; and 
then work the former out to a logical perdition of everything 
belonging to the latter. 

Hugh, however, thought it was all right ; for he had the 
same good reasons, and no other, for receiving it all, that a 
Mohammedan or a Buddhist has for holding his opinions; 
namely, that he had heard those doctrines, and those alone, 
from his earliest childhood. He was therefore a good deal 
startled when, having, on his way home, strayed from the 
laird’s party towards David’s, he heard the latter say to Mar- 
garet, as he came up : — 

“ Dinna ye believe, my bonny doo, ’at there’s onymak’ ups 
or mak’ shifts wi’ Him. He’s aye bringin’ things to the 
licht, no coverin’ them up and lattin them rot, an’ the moth 
tak’ them. He sees us jist as we are, and ca’s us jist what 
we are. It wad be an ill day for a’ o’s, Maggy, my doo, gin 
he war to close his een to oor sins, an’ ca’ us just in his sicht, 
whan we cudna possibly be just in oor ain or in ony ither 
body’s, no to say his.” 

“ The Lord preserve’s, Dawvid Elginbrod ! Dinna ye 
believe i’ the doctrine Justification by Faith, an’ you a’maist 
made an elder o’ ? ” 

J anet was the respondent, of course ; Margaret listened in 
silence. 

“ Ou, ay, I believe in’t, nae doot ; but, troth ! the minister, 
honest man, near-han’ gart me disbelieve in’t a’thegither wi’ 
his gran’ sermon this mornin’, about imputit richteousness, 
an’ a clean robe hidin’ a foul skin or a crookit back. Na, na. 
May Him ’at woosh the feet o’ his friens, wash us a’thegither, 
and straucht oor crookit banes, till we’re clean and weel-faured 
like his ain bonny sel\” 

“ Weel, Dawvid — but that’s sanctificaition, ye ken.” 

“ Ca’t ony name ’at you or the minister likes, Janet, my 
woman. I daursay there’s neither o’ ye far wrang after a’ ; 
only this is jist my opingan aboot it in sma’ — that that man, 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


43 


and that man only, is justifeed, wha pits himsel’ into the Lord’s 
han’s to sanctifee him. Noo ! An’ that’ll no be dune by pit- 
tin’ a robe o’ richteousness upo’ him, afore he’s gotien a clean 
skin aneath’t. As gin a father cudna bide to see the puii 
scabbit skin o’ his ain wee bit bairnie, ay, or o’ his prodigal 
son either, but bude to hap it a’ up afore he cud lat it come 
near him ! Ahva ! ” 

Here Hugh ventured to interpose a remark. 

u But you don’t think, Mr. Elginbrod, that the minister in- 
tended to say that justification left a man at liberty to sin. or 
that the robe of Christ’s righteousness would hide him from 
the work of the Spirit? ” 

“Na; but there is a notion in’t o’ hidin’ frae God himsel’. 
I’ll tell ye what it is, Mr. Sutherlan’ : the minister’s a’ rieht 
in himsel’, an’ sae’s my Janet here, an’ mony mair; an’ aib« 
lins there’s a kin’ o’ trowth in a’ ’at they say ; but this is my 
quarrel wi’ a’ thae words, an’ airguments, an’ seemilies 
as they ca’ them, an’ doctrines, an’ a’ that — they jist 
haud a puir body at airm’s lenth oot ower frae God himsel’. 
An’ they raise a mist an’ a stour a’ aboot him, ’at the puir 
bairn canna see the Father himsel’, stan’in wi’ his airms 
streekit oot as wide’s the heavens, to tak’ the worn crater — 
and the mair sinner, the mair welcome — hame to his verra 
hert. Gin a body wad lea’ a’ that, an’ jist get fowk persuadit 
to speyk a word or twa to God him lane, the loss, in my opin- 
gan, wad be unco sma’, an’ the gain verra great.” 

Even Janet dared not reply to the solemnity of this speech ; 
for the seer-like look was upon David’s face, and the tears had 
gathered in his eyes and dimmed their blue. A kind of trem- 
ulous, pathetic smile flickered about his beautifully curved 
mouth, like the glimmer of water in a valley, betwixt the 
lofty aquiline nose and the powerful but finely modelled chin. 
It seemed as if he dared not let the smile break out, lest it 
should be followed instantly by a burst of tears. 

Margaret went close up to her father, and took his hand as 
if she had been still a child, while Janet walked reverentially 
by him on the other side. It must not be supposed that 
Janet felt any uneasiness about her husband’s opinions, al- 
though she never hesitated to utter what she considered her 
common-sense notions, in attempted modification of some of the 


44 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


more extreme of them. The fact was that, if he was wrong, 
Janet did not care to be right; and if he was right. Janet 
was sure to be ; “ for,” said she, — and in spirit, if not in the 
letter, it was quite true, — “ 1 never mint at contradickin’ him. 
My man sail hae his ain get, that sail he.” But she had one 
especial grudge at his opinions : which was, that it must have 
been in consequence of them that he had declined, with a 
queer smile, the honorable position of Elder of the Kirk ; for 
which J anet considered him, notwithstanding his opinions, im- 
measurably more fitted than any other man “in the haill 
country-side — ye may add Scotian’ forby.” The fact of his 
having been requested to fill the vacant place of Elder is 
proof enough that David was not in the habit of giving open 
expression to his opinions. He was looked upon as a douce 
man, long-headed enough, and somewhat precise in the exac- 
tion of the laird’s rights, but open-hearted and open-handed 
with what was his own. Every one respected him, and felt 
kindly towards him ; some were a little afraid of him ; but few 
suspected him of being religious beyond the degree which is 
commonly supposed to be the general inheritance of Scotch- 
men, possibly in virtue of their being brought up upon oat- 
meal porridge and the Shorter Catechism. 

Hugh walked behind the party for a short way, contemplat- 
ing them in their Sunday clothes ; David wore a suit of fine 
black cloth. He then turned to rejoin the laird’s company. 
Mrs. Glasford was questioning her boys, in an intermittent 
and desultory fashion, about the sermon. 

“An’ what was the fourth heid, — can ye tell me, Wil- 
lie?” 

Willie, the eldest, who had carefully impressed the fourth 
head upon his memory, and had been anxiously waiting for an 
opportunity of bringing it out, replied at once : — 

“Fourthly. The various appellations by which those who 
have indued the robe of righteousness are designated in Holy 
Writ.” 

“ Weel done, Willie ! ” cried the laird. 

“ That’s richt, Willie,” said his mother. Then turning tc 
the younger, whose attention was attracted by a strange bird in 
the hedge in front, “An’ what called he them. Johnnie, that 
put on the robe ? ” she asked. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


45 


“ Whited sepulchres,” answered Johnnie, indebted for his 
wit to hi3 wool-gathering. 

This put an end to the catechizing. Mrs. Glasford glanced 
round at Hugh, whose defection she had seen with indigna- 
tion, and who, waiting for them by the roadside, had heard the 
last question and reply, with an expression that seemed to at- 
tribute any defect in the answer entirely to the carelessness 
of the tutor, and the withdrawal of his energies from her boys 
to that “ saucy quean, Meg Elginbrod.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


NATURE. 

When the Soul is kindled or enlightened by the Holy Ghost, then it beholds what 
God its Father does, as a Son beholds what his Father does at Homo in his own 
House. — Jacob Behmen’s Aurora — Law’s Translation. 

Margaret began to read Wordsworth, slowly at first, but 
soon with greater facility. Ere long she perceived that she 
had found a friend ; for not only did he sympathize with her in 
her love for nature, putting many vague feelings into thoughts, 
and many thoughts into words for her, but he introduced her to 
nature in many altogether new aspects, and taught her to re- 
gard it in ways which had hitherto been unknown to her. Not 
only was the pine-wood now dearer to her than before, but its 
mystery seemed more sacred, and, at the same time, more 
likely to be one day solved. She felt far more assuredly the 
presence of a spirit in nature, 

« Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean, and the living air; ” 


for he taught her to take wider views of nature, and to per- 
ceive and feel the expressions of more extended aspects of the 
world around her. The purple hill-side was almost as dear to 
her a 3 the fir-wood now ; and the star that crowned its summit 
at eve sparkled an especial message to her, before it went on 


46 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


its way up the blue. She extended her rambles in all direc- 
tions, and began to get with the neighbors the character of an 
idle girl. Little they knew how early she rose, and how dili- 
gently she did her share of the work, urged by desire to read 
the word of God in his own handwriting ; or, rather, to pore 
upon that expression of the face of God, which, however little 
a man may think of it, yet sinks so deeply into his nature, 
and moulds it towards its own likeness. 

Nature was doing for Margaret what she had done before 
for Wordsworth’s Lucy : she was making of her “ a lady of 
her own.” She grew taller and more graceful. The lasting 
quiet of her face began to look as if it were ever upon the 
point of blossoming into an expression of lovely feeling. The 
principal change was in her mouth, which became delicate and 
tender in its curves, the lips seeming to kiss each other for 
very sweetness. But I am anticipating these changes, for it 
took a far longer time to perfect them than has yet been occu- 
pied by my story. 

But even her mother was not altogether proof against the 
appearance of listlessness and idleness which Margaret’s be- 
havior sometimes wore to her eyes ; nor could she quite under- 
stand or excuse her long lonely walks; so that now and 
then she could not help addressing her after this fash- 
ion : — 

“Meg! Meg! ye do try my patience, lass, idlin’ awa’ yer 
time that get. It’s an awfu’ wastry o’ time, what wi’ beuks, 
an’ what wi’ stra vaguin’, an’ what wi’ naething ava. Jist pit 
yer han’ to this kirn noo, like a gude bairn.” 

Margaret would obey her mother instantly, but with a look 
of silent expostulation which her mother could not resist; 
sometimes, perhaps, if the words were sharper than usual, 
with symptoms of gathering tears; upon which Janet would 
*ay, with her honest smile of sweet relenting : — 

" Hootoots, bairn ! never heed me. My bark’s aye waur 
nor my bite ; ye ken that.” 

Then Margaret’s face would brighten at once, and she would 
work hard at whatever her mother set her to do, till it was 
anished ; upon which her mother would be more glad than 
site, and in no haste to impose any further labor out of the 
usual routine. 


©AVID ELGINBROD. 


47 


In tlie course of reading Wordsworth, Margaret had fre« 
quent occasion to apply to Hugh for help. These occasions, 
however, generally involved no more than small external diffi- 
culties, which prevented her from taking in the scope of a 
passage. Hugh was always able to meet these, and Margaret 
supposed that the whole of the light which flashed upon her 
mind, when they were removed, was poured upon the page 
the wisdom of her tutor ; never dreaming — such was her hu- 
mility with regard to herself, and her reverence towards him 
— that it came from the depths of her own lucent nature, 
ready to perceive what the poet came prepared to show. Now 
and then, it is true, she applied to him with difficulties in 
which he was incapable of aiding her ; but she put down her 
failure in discovering the meaning, after all which it must be 
confessed he sometimes tried to say, to her own stupidity or 
peculiarity, — never to his incapacity. She had been helped 
to so much by his superior acquirements and his real gift for 
communicating what he thoroughly understood ; he had been 
so entirely her guide to knowledge, that she would at once 
have felt self- condemned of impiety, — in the old meaning of 
the word, — if she had doubted for a moment his ability to 
understand or explain any difficulty which she could place 
clearly before him. 

By and by he began to lend her harder, that is, more purely 
intellectual books. He was himself preparing for the class of 
Moral Philosophy and Metaphysics; and he chose for her some 
of the simpler of his books on these subjects, — of course all 
of the Scotch school, — beginning with Abercrombie’s “Intel- 
lectual Powers.” She took this eagerly, and evidently read 
it with great attention. 

One evening, in the end of summer, Hugh climbed a waste 
heathery hill that lay behind the house of Turriepuffit, and 
overlooked a great part of the neighboring country, the peaks 
of some of the greatest of the Scotch mountains being visible 
from its top. Here he intended to wait for the sunset. He 
threw himself on the heather, that most delightful and luxu- 
rious of all couches, supporting the body with a kindly up- 
holding of every part; and there he lay in the great slumber- 
ous sunlight of the late afternoon, with the blue heavens, into 
which lie was gazing full up, closing down upon him, as the 


48 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


light descended the side of the sky. He fell fast asleep. If 
ever there be an excuse for falling asleep out of bed. surely it 
is when stretched at full length upon heather in bloom. When 
he awoke, the last of the sunset was dying away ; and between 
him and the sunset sat Margaret, book in hand, waiting appar- 
ently for his waking. He lay still for a few minutes, to come 
to himself before she should see he was awake. But she rose 
at the moment, and, drawing near very quietly, looked down 
upon him with her sweet sunset face, to see whether or not he 
was beginning to rouse, for she feared to let him lie much 
longer after sundown. Finding him awake, she drew back 
again without a word, and sat down as before with her book. 
At length he rose, and, approaching her, said : — 

“ Well, Margaret, what book are you at now ? ” 

“ Dr. Abercrombie, sir,” replied Margaret. 

“ How do you like it ? ” 

“ Yerra weel for some things. It makes a body think; but 
not a’thegither as I like to think either.” 

It will be observed that Margaret’s speech had begun to 
improve, that is, to be more like English. 

“ What is the matter with it ? ” 

“ Weel, ye see, sir, it taks a body a’ to bits like, and nevei 
pits them together again. An’ it seems to me that a body’s 
min’ or soul, or whatever it may be called, — but it’s jist a 
body’s ain sel’, — can no more be ta’en to pieces like, than you 
could tak’ that red licht there oot o’ the blue, or the haill sun- 
set oot o’ the heavens an’ earth. It may be a’ verra weel, Mr. 
Sutherland, but oh ! it’s no like this ! ” 

And Margaret looked around her from the hill-top, and then 
up into the heavens, where the stars were beginning to crack 
the blue with their thin, steely sparkle. 

“ It seems to me to tak’ a’ the poetry oot o’ us, Mr. Suther- 
land.” 

“ Well, well,” said Hugh, with a smile, “you must just go 
to Wordsworth to put it in again ; or to set you up again after 
Dr. Abercrombie has demolished you.” 

“ Na, na, sir, he shanna demolish me ; nor I winna trouble 
Mr. Wordsworth to puc the poetry into me again. A’ the 
power on earth shanna tak’ that oot o’ me, gin it be God’s 
will ; for it’s his ain gift, Fir. Sutherland, ye ken.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


49 


“ Of course, of course,” replied Hugh, who very likely 
thought this too serious a way of speaking of poetry, and 
therefore, perhaps, rather an irreverent way of speaking of 
God ; for he saw neither the divine in poetry, nor the human 
in God. Could he be said to believe that God made man, when 
he did not believe that God created poetry, — and yet loved it 
as he did ? It was to him only a grand invention of humanity 
in its loftiest development. In this development, then, he must 
have considered humanity as farthest from its origin ; and God 
as the creator of savages, caring nothing for poets or their 
work. 

They turned, as by common consent, to go down the hill 
together. 

“ Shall I take charge of the offending volume? You will 
not care to finish it, I fear,” said Hugh. 

“No, sir, if you please. I never like to leave onything 
unfinished. I’ll read ilka word in’t. I fancy the thing ’at 
sets me against it is mostly this : that, readiri’ it alang wi’ 
Euclid, I canna help aye thinkin’ o’ my ain min’ as gin it 
were in some geometrical shape or ither, whiles ane an’ whiles 
anither ; and syne I try to draw lines an’ separate this power 
frae that power, the memory frae the jeedgement, an’ the im- 
agination frae the rizzon ; an’ syne I try to pit them a’ thegither 
again in their relations to ane anither. And this aye takes 
the shape o’ some proposition or ither, generally i’ the second 
beuk. It near-han’ dazes me whiles. I fancy gin’ I under- 
stood the pairts o’ the sphere, it would be mair to the purpose ; 
but I wat I wish I were clear o’t a’ thegither.” 

Hugh had had some experiences of a similar kind himself, 
though not at all to the same extent. He could therefore un- 
derstand her. 

“ You must just try to keep the things altogether apart,” 
said he, “and not think of the two sciences at once.” 

“ But I canna help it,” she replied. “ I suppose you can, 
sir, because ye’re a man. My father can understan’ things ten 
times better nor me an’ my mother. But nae sooner do I be- 
gin to read and think about it. than up comes ane o’ thae 
parallelograms, an’ nothing will drive’t oot o’ my head again 
but a verse or twa o’ Coleridge or Wordsworth.” 

4 


50 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Hugh immediately began to repeat the first poem of the lat- 
ter that occurred to him : — 

“ I wandered lonely as a cloud.” 


She listened, walking along with her eyes fixed on the 
ground ; and when he had finished gave a sigh of delight and 
relief, — all the comment she uttered. She seemed never to 
find it necessary to say what she felt ; least of all when the 
feeling was a pleasant one ; for then it was enough for itself. 
This was only the second time since their acquaintance that 
she had spoken of her feelings at all ; and in this case they 
were of a purely intellectual origin. It is to be observed, 
however, that in both cases she had taken pains to explain 
thoroughly what she meant, as far as she was able. 

It was dark before they reached home, at least as dark as it 
ever is at this season of the year in the north. They found 
David looking out with some slight anxiety for his daughter’s 
return, for she was seldom out so late as this. In nothing 
could the true relation between them have been more evident 
than in the entire absence from her manner of any embarrass- 
ment when she met her father. She went up to him and told 
him all about finding Mr. Sutherland asleep on the hill, and 
waiting beside him till he woke, that she might walk home 
with him. Her father seemed perfectly content with an expla- 
nation which he had not sought, and, turning to Hugh, said, 
smiling : — 

“ Weel, no to be troublesome, Mr. Sutherlan’, ye maun gie 
the auld man a turn as weel as the young lass. We didna 
expec’ ye the nicht, but I’m sair puzzled wi’ a sma’ eneuch 
matter on my sklet in there. Will you no come in and gie 
me a lift ? 99 

“With all my heart,” said Sutherland. So there were five 
lessons in that week. 

When Hugh entered the cottage he had a fine sprig of heathei 
in his hand, which he laid on the table. 

He had the weakness of being proud of small discoveries, — 
the tinier the better ; and was always sharpening his senses, as 
well as his intellect, to a fine point, in order to make them. 
I fear that by these means he shut out some great ones, which 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


51 


could not enter during such a concentration of the faculties. 
He would stand listening to the sound of goose-feet upon the 
road, and watch how those webs laid hold of the earth like a 
hand. He would struggle to enter into their feelings in fold- 
ing their wings properly on their backs. He would calculate, 
on chemical and arithmetical grounds, whether one might not 
hear the nocturnal growth of plants in the tropics. He was 
quite elated by the discovery, as he considered it, that Shake- 
speare named his two officers of the watch, Dogberry and 
Verjuice; the poisonous dogberry, and the acid liquor of green 
fruits, affording suitable names for the stupidly innocuous con- 
stables. in a play the very essence of which is “Much Ado 
about Nothing.” Another of his discoveries he had, during 
their last lesson, unfolded to David, who had certainly contem- 
plated with interest. It was, that the original forms of the 
Arabic numerals were these : — 

the number for which each figure stands being indicated by 
the number of straight lines employed in forming that numeral. 
I fear that the comparative anatomy of figures gives no counte- 
nance to the discovery which Hugh flattered himself he had 
made. 

After he had helped David out of his difficulty, he took up 
the heather, and, stripping off the bells, shook them in his hand 
at Margaret’s ear. A half smile, like the moonlight of laugh- 
ter, dawned on her face ; and she listened with something of 
the same expression with which a child listens to the message 
from the sea, enclosed in a twisted shell. He did the same at 
David’s ear next. 

“ Eh, man ! that’s a bonny wee soun’ ! It’s jist like sma’ 
sheep-bells — fairy-sheep, I reckon, Maggy, my doo.” 

“ Lat me hearken as weel,” said Janet. 

Hugh obeyed. She laughed. 

“It’s naething but a reestlin’. I wad raither hear the sheep 
baain’, or the kye routin’.” 

“ Eh, Mr. Sutherlan’ ! but ye hae a gleg ee an’ a sharp 
lug. Weel, the warld’s fu’ o’ bonny sichts and soun’s, doon 


52 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


to the verra sma’est. The Lord lats naethin’ gang. I wadna 
wonner noo but there micht be thousands sic like, ower sraa’ 
a’thegither for human ears, jist as we ken there are creatures 
as perfect in beowty as ony we see, but far ower sma’ for our 
een wintin’ the glass. But for my pairt, I aye like to see a 
heap o’ things at ance, an’ tak’ them a’ in thegither, an’ see 
them playin’ into ane anither’s han’ like. I was jist thinkin', 
as I came hame the nicht in the sinset, hoo it wad hae been nae- 
wise sae complete, wi’ a’ its red an’ gowd an’ green, gin it 
hadna been for the cauld blue east ahint it, wi’ the twa-three 
shiverin’ starnies leukin’ through’t. An’ doubtless the warld 
to come ’ill be a’ the warmer to them ’at hadna ower muckle 
happin here. But I’m jist haverin’, clean haverin’, Mr. 
Sutherlan’,” concluded David, with a smile of apologetic hu- 
mor. 

“ I suppose you could easily believe with Plato, David, that 
the planets make a grand choral music as they roll about the 
heavens, only that as some sounds are too small, so that is too 
loud for us to hear.” 

“ I cud weel believe that,” was David’s unhesitating answer. 
Margaret looked as if she not only could believe it, but would 
be delighted to know that it was true. Neither Janet nor 
Hugh gave any indication of feeling on the matter. 


CHAPTER X. 

HARVEST. 


So a small seed that in the earth lies hid 
And dies, reviving, bursts her cloddy side, 

Adorned with yellow locks, of new is born, 

And doth become a mother great with corn, 

Of grains brings hundreds with it, which when old 
Unrich ihe rtirrows with a sea of gold. 

Sin W:ixiam Drummond. — Hymn of the Resurrection. 


Hugh had watched the green corn grow, and ear, and turn 
dim; then brighten to yellow, and ripen at last under the 
declining autumn sun, aud the low skirting moon of the liar- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


53 


vest, which seems too full and heavy with mellow and boun- 
tiful light to rise high above the fields which it comes to bless 
with perfection. The long threads, on each of which hung an 
oat grain. — the harvest here was mostly of oats, — had got 
dry and brittle ; and the grains began to spread out their 
chaff-wings, as if ready to fly, and rustled with sweet sounds 
against each other, as the wind, which used to billow the fields 
like the waves of the sea, now swept gently and tenderly over 
it, helping the sun and moon in the drying and ripening of the 
joy to be laid up for the dreary winter. Most graceful of all 
hung those delicate oats ; next bowed the bearded barley ; and 
stately and wealthy and strong stood the few fields of wheat, 
of a rich, ruddy, golden hue. Above the yellow harvest rose 
the purple hills, and above the hills the pale-blue autumnal sky, 
full of light and heat, but fading somewhat from the color with 
which it deepened above the vanished days of summer. For 
the harvest here is much later than in England. 

At length the day arrived when the sickle must be put into 
the barley, soon to be followed by the scythe in the oats. And 
now came the joy of labor. Everything else was abandoned 
for the harvest-field. Books were thrown utterly aside ; for, 
even when there was no fear of a change of weather to urge to 
labor prolonged beyond the natural hours, there was weariness 
enough in the work of the day to prevent even David from 
reading, in the hours of bodily rest, anything that necessitated 
mental labor. 

J anet and Margaret betook themselves to the reaping-hook ; 
and the somewhat pale face of the latter needed but a single 
day to change it to the real harvest-hue, — the brown livery of 
Ceres. But when the oats were attacked, then came the tug of 
war. The laird was in the fields from morning to night, and 
the boys would not stay behind ; but, with their father’s per- 
mission, much to the tutor’s contentment, devoted what powers 
they had to the gathering of the fruits of the earth. Hugh 
himself, whose strength had grown amazingly during his stay 
at Turriepuflit, and who, though he was quite helpless at the 
sickle, thought he could wield the scythe, would not be behind. 
Throwing off coat and waistcoat, and tying his handkerchief 
tight around his loins, he laid hold on the emblematic weapon 
of Time and Death, determined likewise to earn the name of 


64 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Reaper. He took the last scythe. It was desperate work for 
a while, and he was far behind the first bout ; but David, who 
was the best scyther in the whole country-side, and of course 
had the leading scythe, seeing the tutor dropping behind, put 
more power into his own arm, finished his bout, and brought 
up Hugh’s before the others had done sharpening their scythes 
for the next. 

“ Tak’ care an’ nae rax yersel’ ower sair, Mr. Sutherlan’- 
Ye’ll be up wi’ the best o’ them in a day or twa ; but gin ye 
tyauve at it aboon yer strenth, ye’ll be clean forfochten. Tak’ 
a guid sweep wi’ the scythe, ’at ye may hae the weicht o’t to 
ca’ through the strae, an’ tak’ nae shame at being hindmost. 
Here, Maggy, my doo, come an’ gather to Mr. Sutherlan’. 
Ane o’ the young gentlemen can tak’ your place at the bin’in’. 

The work of Janet and Margaret had been to form bands 
for the sheaves, by folding together cunningly the heads of 
two small handfuls of the corn, so as to make them long enough 
together to go round the sheaf ; then to lay this down for the 
gatherer to place enough of the mown corn upon it ; and last, 
to bind the band tightly around by another skilful twist and 
an insertion of the ends, and so form a sheaf. From this work 
David called his daughter, desirous of giving Hugh a gatherer 
who would not be disrespectful to his awkwardness. This ar- 
rangement, however, was far from pleasing to some of the young 
men in the field, and brought down upon Hugh, who was too 
hard- wrought to hear them at first, many sly hits of country 
wit and human contempt. There had been for some time 
great jealousy of his visits to David’s cottage ; for Margaret, 
though she had very little acquaintance with the young men 
of the neighborhood, was greatly admired amongst them, and 
not regarded as so far above the station of many of them as 
to render aspiration useless. Their remarks to each other got 
louder and louder, till Hugh at last heard some of them, and 
could not help being annoyed, not by their wit or personality, 
but by the tone of contempt in which they were uttered. 

“ Tak’ care o’ your legs, sir. It’ll be ill cuttin’ upo J 
stumps.” 

“Fegs ! he’s ta’en the wings aff o’ a pairtrick.” 

“ Gin he gang on that get, he’ll cut twa bouts at ance.” 

“ Ye’ll hae the scythe ower the dyke, man. Tak’ tent.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


56 


“ Losh ! sir; ye’ve ta’en aff my leg at the hip! ” 

“ Ye’re shavin’ ower close; ye’ll draw the bluid, sir.” 

“ Hoot, man ! lat alane. The gentleman’s only mista’en 
his trade, an’ imaigins he’s howkin’ a grave.” 

And so on. Hugh gave no further sign of hearing theii 
remarks than lay in increased exertion. Looking round, how- 
ever, he saw that Margaret was vexed, evidently not for her 
own sake. He smiled to her, to console her for his annoyance ; 
and then, ambitious to remove the cause of it, made a fresh 
exertion, recovered all his distance, and was in his own place 
with the best of them at the end of the bout. But the smile 
that had passed between them did not escape unobserved ; and 
he had aroused yet more the wrath of the youths, by threaten- 
ing soon to rival them in the excellences to which they had an 
especial claim. They had regarded him as an interloper, who 
had no right to captivate one of their rank by arts beyond 
their reach ; but it was still less pardonable to dare them to a 
trial of skill with their own weapons. To the fire of this jeal- 
ousy, the admiration of the laird added fuel ; for he was de- 
lighted with the spirit with which Hugh laid himself to the 
scythe. But, all the time, nothing was further from Hugh’s 
thoughts than the idea of rivalry with them. Whatever he 
might have thought of Margaret in relation to himself, he 
never thought of her, though laboring in the same field with 
them, as in the least degree belonging to their class, or stand- 
ing in any possible relation to them, except that of a common 
work. 

In ordinary, the laborers would have had sufficient respect 
for Sutherland’s superior position to prevent them from giving 
such decided and articulate utterance to their feelings. But 
they were incited by the presence and example of a man of 
doubtful character from the neighboring village, a travelled 
and clever no er-do-weel, whose reputation for wit was equalled 
by his reputation for courage and skill as well as profligacy. 
Boused by the effervescence of his genius, they went on from 
one thing to another, till Hugh saw it must be put a stop to 
somehow, else he must abandon the field. They dared not 
have gone so far if David had been present ; but he had been 
called away to superintend some operations in another part of 
the estate ; and they paid no heed to the expostulations of some 


5e 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


of the other older men. At the close of the day's work, there* 
fore, Hugh walked up to this fellow, and said : — 

u I hope you will be satisfied with insulting me all to-day, 
and leave it alone to-morrow.” 

The man replied, with an oath and a gesture of rude con- 
tempt : — 

11 1 dinna care the black afore my nails for ony skelp-doup 
o’ the lot o’ ye.” 

Hugh’s Highland blood flew to his brain, and, before the ras- 
cal finished his speech, he had measured his length on the 
stubble. He sprang to his feet in a fury, threw off the coat 
which he had just put on, and darted at Hugh, who had by 
this time recovered his coolness, and was besides, notwithstand- 
ing his unusual exertions, the more agile of the two. The 
other was heavier and more powerful. Hugh sprang aside, as 
he would have done from the rush of a bull, and again with a 
quick blow felled his antagonist. Beginning rather to enjoy 
punishing him, he now went in for it ; and, before the other 
would yield, he had rendered his next day’s labor somewhat 
doubtful. He withdrew, with no more injury to himself than 
a little water would remove. J anet and Margaret had left the 
field before he addressed the man. 

He went borne and to bed, — more weary than he had ever 
been in his life. Before he went to sleep, however, he made 
up his mind to say nothing of his encounter to David, but to 
leave him to hear of it from other sources. He could not help 
feeling a little anxious as to his judgment upon it. That the 
laird would approve, he hardly doubted ; but for his opinion 
he cared very little. 

“ Dawvid, I wonner at ye,” said Janet to her husband, the 
moment he came home, “ to lat the young lad warstle himsel’ 
deid that get wi’ a scythe. His banes is but saft yet. There 
wasna a dry steek on him or he wan half the lenth o' the first 
bout. He’s sair disjaskit, I’se warran’.” 

“Nae fear o’ him, Janet; it’ll do him guid. Mr. Suther- 
land no feckless winlestrae o’ a creater. Did he haud his 
ain at a’ wi’ the lave? ” 

“Haud his ain! Gip he be fit for onything the day, he 
maun be pitten n|eis$ yer$el’, or he’ll cut the legs aff o’ on^ 
ither man i’ the corn.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


57 


A glow of pleasure mantled in Margaret’s face at her moth- 
er’s praise of Hugh. Janet went on : — 

“ But I was jist clean affronted wi’ the way ’at the young 
chields behaved themselves till him.” 

“ I thocht I heard a toot-moot o’ that kin’ afore I left, but 
I thocht it better to tak’ nae notice o’t. I’ll be wi’ ye a’ day 
the morn though, an’ I’m thinkin’ I’ll clap a rouch han’ on 
their mou’s ’at I hear ony mair o’t frae.” 

But there was no occasion for interference on David’s part. 
Hugh made his appearance, — not, it is true, with the earliest 
in the hairst-rig , but after breakfast, with the laird, who was 
delighted with the way in which he had handled his scythe the 
day before, and felt twice the respect for him in consequence. 
It must be confessed he felt very stiff ; but the best treatment 
for stiffness being the homoeopathic one of more work, he 
had soon restored the elasticity of his muscles, and lubricated 
his aching joints. His antagonist of the foregoing evening 
was nowhere to be seen ; and the rest of the young men were 
shamefaced and respectful enough. 

David, having learned from some of the spectators the facts 
of the combat, suddenly, as they were walking home together, 
held but his hand to Hugh, shook his head, and said : — 

“ Mr. Sutherlan’, I’m sair obleeged to ye for giein’ that 
vratch, Jamie Ogg, a guid doonsettin’. He’s a coorse crater; 
but the warst maun hae meat, an’ sae I didna like to refeese 
him when he cam for wark. But it’s a greater kin’ness to 
clout him nor to deed him. They say ye made an’ awfu* 
munsie o’ him. But it’s to be houpit he’ll live to thank ye. 
There’s some fowk ’at can respeck no airgument but frae steekit 
neives ; an’ it’s fell cruel to haud it frae them, gin ye hae’t to 
gie them. I hae had eneuch ado to haud my ain han’s aff o’ 
the ted, but it comes a hantle better frae you, Mr. Suther- 
lan’.” 

Hugh wielded the scythe the whole of the harvest, and 
Margaret gathered to him. By the time it was over, leading- 
home and all, he measured an inch less about the waist, and 
two inches more about the shoulders ; and was as brown as a 
berry, and as strong as an ox, or “ owse,” as David called it, 
when thus describing Mr. Sutherland’s progress in corporal 
development ; for he took a fatherly pride in the youth, to 


68 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


whom, at the same time, he looked up with submission, as his 
n learning. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A CHANGE AND NO CHANGE. 

Affliction, when I know it, is but this: 

A deep alloy, whereby man tougher is 
To bear the hammer; and the deeper still, 

We still arise more image of his will. 

Sickness, — an humorous cloud ’twixt us and light; 

And death, at longest, but another night. 

Man is his own star; and that soul that can 
Be honest is the only perfect man. 

J ohn Fletcher. — Upon an Honest Man’s Fortune. 

Ha& Cfattorland been in love with Margaret, those would 
liive been Iiappy days ; and that a yet more happy night, 
when, under the mystery of a low moonlight and a gathering 
storm, the crop was oast in haste into the carts, and hurried 
home to be built up in safety ; when a strange low wind* crept 
sighing across the stubble, as if it came wandering out of the 
past and the land of dreams, lying far off and withered in the 
green west ; and when Margaret and he came and went in the 
moonlight like creatures in a dream, — for the vapors of sleep 
were floating in Hugh’s brain, although he was awake and 
working. 

“ Margaret,” he said, as they stood waiting a moment for 
the cart that was coming up to be filled with sheaves, “ what 
does that wind put you in mind of ? ” 

“ Ossian’s poems,” replied Margaret, without a moment's 
hesitation. 

Hugh was struck by her answer. He had meant something 
quite different. But it harmonized with his feeling about 
Ossian ; for the genuineness of whose poetry, Highlander as he 
was, he had no better argument to give than the fact that they 
produced in himself an altogether peculiar mental condition ; 
that the spiritual sensations he had in reading them were quite 
different from those produced by anything else, prose or verse ,* 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


59 


m fact, that they created moods of their own in his mind. He 
Was unwilling to believe, apart from national prejudices (which 
Dave not prevented the opinions on this question from being as 
strong on the one side as on the other), that this individuality 
of influence could belong to mere affectations of a style which 
had never sprung from the sources of real feeling. 11 Could 
they,” he thought, “ possess the power to move us like remem- 
bered dreams of our childhood, if all that they possessed of 
reality was a pretended imitation of what never existed, and 
all that they inherited from the past was the halo of its 
strangeness? ” 

But Hugh was not in love with Margaret, though he could 
not help feeling the pleasure of her presence. Any youth 
must have been the better for having her near him ; but there 
was nothing about her quiet, self-contained being, free from 
manifestation of any sort, to rouse the feelings commonly called 
love, in the mind of an inexperienced youth like Hugh Suther- 
land. I say commonly called , because I believe that within 
the whole sphere of intelligence there are no two loves the same. 
Hot that he was less easily influenced than other youths. A 
designing girl might have caught him at once, if she had no 
other beauty than sparkling eyes ; but the womanhood of the 
beautiful Margaret kept so still in its pearly cave, that it rarely 
met the glance of neighboring eyes. How Margaret regarded 
him I do not know ; but I think it was with a love almost 
entirely one with reverence and gratitude. Cause for grati- 
tude she certainly had, though less than she supposed ; and 
very little cause indeed for reverence. But how could she fail 
to revere one to whom even her father looked up ? Of course 
David’s feeling of respect for Hugh must have sprung chiefly 
from intellectual grounds ; and he could hardly help seeing, if 
he thought at all on the subject, which is doubtful, that Hugh 
was as far behind Margaret in the higher gifts and graces, as 
he was before her in intellectual acquirement. But whether 
David perceived this or not, certainly Margaret did not even 
think in that direction. She was pure of self-judgment, — con- 
scious of no comparing of herself with others, least of all with 
those next her. 

At length the harvest was finished ; or, as the phrase of the 
district was, clyack was gotten , — a phrase with the derivation, 


60 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


or even the exact meaning of which I am unacquainted; 
knowing only that it implies something in close association 
with the feast of harvest-home, called the kirn in other parts 
of Scotland. Thereafter, the fields lay bare to the frosts of 
morning and evening, and to the wind that grew cooler md 
cooler with the breath of Winter, who lay behind the northern 
hills, and waited for his hour. But many lovely days remained, 
of quiet and slow decay, of yellow and red leaves, of warm 
noons and lovely sunsets, followed by skies — green from the 
west horizon to the zenith, and walked by a moon that seemed 
to draw up to her all the white mists from pond and river and 
pool, to settle again in hoar-frost during the colder hours that 
precede the dawn. At length every leafless tree sparkled in 
the morning sun, incrusted with fading gems ; and the ground 
was hard under foot ; and the hedges were filled with frosted 
spider-webs ; and winter had laid the tips of his fingers on the 
land, soon to cover it deep with the flickering snow-flakes, 
shaken from the folds of his outspread mantle. But long ero 
this, David and Margaret had returned with renewed diligence, 
and powers strengthened by repose, or at least by intermission, 
to their mental labors, and Hugh was as constant a visitor at 
the cottage as before. The time, however, drew nigh when he 
must return to his studies at Aberdeen ; and David and Mar- 
garet were looking forward with sorrow to the loss of their friend. 
Janet, too, “cudna bide to think o’t.” 

“ He'll tak’ the daylicht wi’ him, I doot, my lass,” she 
said, as she made the porridge for breakfast one morning, and 
looked down anxiously at her daughter, seated on the creepie 
by the ingle-neuk. 

“ Na, na, mither,” replied Margaret, looking up from hei 
book ; “ he’ll lea’ sic gifts ahin’ him as’ 11 mak’ daylicht i’ thi 
dark; ” and then she bent her head and went on with her read' 
ing, as if she had not spoken. 

The mother looked away with a sigh and a slight sad shakt 
of the head. 

But matters were to turn out quite differently from all antici 
pations. Before the day arrived on which Hugh must leave 
for the university, a letter from home informed him that hit? 
father was dangerously ill. He hastened to him, but only to 
comfort his last hours by all that a son could do, and to support 


DAVID ELGINBROl>. 


61 


his mother by his presence during the first hours of her lone 
liness. But anxious thoughts for the future, which so often 
force themselves on the attention of those who would gladly 
prolong their brooding over the past, compelled them to adopt 
an alteration of their plans for the present. 

The half-pay of Major Sutherland was gone, of course ; and 
all that remained for Mrs. Sutherland was a small annuity, 
secured by her husband’s payments to a certain fund for the 
use of officers’ widows. From this she could spare but a mere 
trifle for the completion of Hugh’s university education ; while 
the salary he had received at Turriepuffit, almost the whole 
of which he had saved, was so small as to be quite inadequate 
for the very moderate outlay necessary. He therefore came to 
the resolution to write to the laird, and offer, if they were not 
yet provided with another tutor, to resume his relation to the 
young gentlemen for the winter. It was next to impossible to 
spend money there ; and he judged that, before the following 
winter, he should be quite able to meet the expenses of his 
residence at Aberdeen during the last session of his course. 
He would have preferred trying to find another situation, had 
it not been that David and Janet and Margaret had made there 
a home for him. 

Whether Mrs. Glasford was altogether pleased at the pro 
posal I cannot tell ; but the laird wrote a very gentlemanlike 
epistle, condoling with him and his mother upon their loss, and 
urging the usual commonplaces of consolation. The letter 
ended with a hearty acceptance of Hugh’s offer, and, strange 
to tell, the unsolicited promise of an increase of salary to the 
amount of five pounds. This is another to be added to the 
many proofs that verisimilitude is not in the least an essential 
element of verity. 

He left his mother as soon as circumstances would permit, 
and returned to Turriepuffit ; an abode for the winter very 
different indeed from that in which he had expected to spend 
it. 

He reached the place early in the afternoon ; received from 
Mrs. Glasford a cold “ I hope you’re well, Mr. Sutherland; ” 
found his pupils actually reading, and had from them a wel- 
come rather boisterously evidenced; told them to get their 
books; and sat down with them at once to commence their 


62 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


winter labors. He spent two hours thus ; had a hearty shake 
of the hand from the laird, when he came home ; and, after a 
substantial tea, walked down to David’s cottage, where a wel- 
come awaited him worth returning for. 

“ Come yer wa’s butt,” said Janet, who met him as he 
opened the door without any prefatory knock, and caught him 
with both hands ; “ I’m blithe to see yer bonny face ance mair. 
We’re a’ jist at ane mair wi’ expeckin’ o ; ye.” 

David stood in the middle of the floor, waiting for him. 

“ Come awa’, my bonny lad,” was all his greeting, as he 
held out a great fatherly hand to the youth, and, grasping his 
in the one, dapped him on the shoulder with the other, the 
water standing in his blue eyes the while. Hugh thought of 
his own father, and could not restrain his tears. Margaret 
gave him a still look full in the face, and, seeing his emotion, 
did not even approach to offer him any welcome. She hastened, 
instead, to place a chair for him as she had done when first he 
entered the cottage, and when he had taken it sat down at his 
feet on her creepie. With true delicacy, no one took any 
notice of him for some time. David said at last : — 

“ An’ hoo’s yer puir mother, Mr. Sutherlan’ ? ” 

“ She’s pretty well,” was all Hugh could answer. 

“ It’s a sair stroke to bide,” said David ; “but it’s a gran’ 
thing whan a man’s won weel throw’ t. Whan my father deit, 
I min’ weel, I was sae prood to see him lyin’ there, in the 
cauld grandeur o’ deith, an’ no man ’at daured say he ever 
did or spak the thing ’at didna become him, ’at I jist gloried 
i’ the mids o’ my greetin’. He was but a puir auld shepherd, 
Mr. Sutherlan’, wi’ hair as white as the sheep ’at followed 
him ; an’ I wat as they followed him, he followed the great 
Shepherd; an’ followed an’ followed, till he jist followed Him 
hame, whaur we’re a’ boun’, an’ some o’ us far on the road, 
thanks to Him ! ” 

And with that David rose, and got down the Bible, and, 
opening it reverently, read with a solemn, slightly tremulous 
roice, the fourteenth chapter of St. John’s Gospel. When he 
had finished, they all rose, as by one accord, and knelt down, 
and David prayed : — 

“0 Thou, in whase sicht oor deith is precious, an’ no licht 
maitter; wha through darkness leads to licht, an’ through 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


63 


deith to the greater life ! — we canna believe that thou 
wouldst gie us ony guid thing, to tak’ the same again ; for that 
would be but bairns’ play. We believe that thou taks, that 
thou may gie again the same thing better nor afore — mair o’t 
md better nor we could ha’ received it itherwise ; jist as the 
Lord took himsel’ frae the sicht o’ them ’at lo’ed him weel, 
that instead o’ bein’ veesible afore their een, he micht hide 
himsel’ in their verra herts. Come thou, an’ abide in us, an’ 
tak’ us to bide in thee ; an’ syne gin we be a’ in thee, we canna 
be that far frae ane anither, though some sud be in haven, an’ 
some upo’ earth. Lord, help us to do oor wark like thy men 
an’ maidens doon the stair, remin’in’ oursel’s, at’ them ’at we 
miss hae only gane up the stair, as gin ’twar to haud things to 
thy ban’ i’ thy ain presence-chaumer, whaur we houp to be 
called or lang, an’ to see thee an’ thy Son, wham we lo’e 
aboon a’ ; an’ in his name we say, Amen l ” 

Hugh lose from his knees with a sense of solemnity and re- 
ality that he had never felt before. Little was said that even- 
ing ; supper was eaten, if not in silence, yet with nothing that 
could be called conversation. And, almost in silence, David 
walked home with Hugh. The spirit of his father seemed to 
walk beside him. He felt as if he had been buried with him ; 
and had found that the sepulchre was clothed with green 
things and roofed with stars ; was in truth the heavens and 
the earth in which his soul walked abroad. 

If Hugh looked a little more into his Bible, and tried a lit- 
tle more to understand it, after his father’s death, it is not to 
be wondered at. It is but another instance of the fact that, 
whether from education or from the leading of some higher 
instinct, we are ready, in every more profound trouble, to feel 
as if a solution or a refuge lay somewhere, — lay in sounds of 
wisdom, perhaps, to be sought and found in the best of books, 
the deepest of all the mysterious treasuries of words. But 
David never sought to influence Hugh to this end. He read 
the Bible in his family, but he never urged the reading of it 
on others. Sometimes he seemed rather to avoid the subject 
of religion altogether ; and yet it was upon those very occa- 
sions that, if he once began to speak, he would pour out, be- 
fore he ceased, some of his most impassioned utterances. 


64 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Knowledge bloweth up, but eharity buildeth up. 

Lord Bacon’s rendering of 1 Cor. viii. 1. 

Things went on as usual for a few days, when Hugh 3egan 
to encounter a source of suffering of a very material and unro- 
mantic kind, hut which, nevertheless, had been able before 
now, namely, at the commencement of his tutorship, to cause 
him a very sufficient degree of distress. It was this : that he 
had no room in which he could pursue his studies in private 
without having to endure a most undesirable degree of cold. 
In summer this was a matter of little moment, for the universe 
might then be his secret chamber ; but in a Scotch spring or 
autumn, not to say winter, a bedroom without a fireplace, 
which, strange to say, was the condition of his, was not a 
study in which thought could operate to much satisfactory re- 
sult. Indeed, pain is a far less hurtful enemy to thinking 
than cold. And to have to fight such suffering and its be- 
numbing influences, as well as to follow out a train of reason- 
ing, difficult at any time, and requiring close attention, is 
too much for any machine whose thinking wheels are driven 
by nervous gear. Sometimes — for he must make the at- 
tempt — he came down to his meals quite blue with cold, as 
his pupils remarked to their mother; but their observation 
never seemed to suggest to her mind the necessity of making 
some better provision for the poor tutor. And Hugh, after 
the way in which she had behaved to him, was far too proud 
to ask of her a favor, even if he had had hopes of receiving 
his request. He knew too, that, in the house, the laird, to 
interfere in the smallest degree, must imperil far more than 
he dared. The prospect, therefore, of the coming winter, in a 
country where there was scarcely any afternoon, and where 
the snow might lie feet deep for weeks, was not at all agreea- 
ble. He had, as I have said, begun to suffer already, for the 
mornings and evenings were cold enough now, although it was 
a bright, dry October. One evening J anet remarked that he 
had caught cold, for he was ‘ hostin’ sair ; ’ and this led 
Hugh to stabs the discomfort he was condemned to experience 
up at the ha’ house. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


65 


“Weel,” said David, after some silent deliberation, “that 
Battles’ t ; we maun set aboot it immedantly.” 

Of course Hugh was quite at a loss to understand what he 
meant, and begged him to explain. 

“ Ye see,” replied David, “ we hae verra little hoose-room 
i’ this bit cot; for, excep this kitchen, we hae but the ben 
whaur Janet and me sleeps ; and sae last year I spak’ to the 
laird to lat me hae as muckle timmer as I wad need to big a 
kin’ o’ a lean-to to the house ahin’, so ’at we micht hae a kin’ 
o’ a bit parlour like, or rather a roomie ’at ony o’ us micht 
retire till for a bit, gin we wanted to be oor lanes. He had 
nae objections, honest man. But somehoo or ither I never set 
han’ till’t ; but noo the wa’s maun be up afore the wat weather 
sets in. Sae I’se be at it the morn, an’ maybe ye’ll len’ me 
a han’, Mr. Sutherlan’, and tak’ oot yer wages in house- 
room an’ firin’ efter it’s dune.” 

“Thank you heartily!” said Hugh; “that would be de- 
lightful. It seems too good to be possible. But will not 
wooden walls be rather a poor protection against such winters 
as I suppose you have in these parts? ” 

“ Hootoot, Mr. Sutherlan’, ye micht gie me credit for rai- 
ther mair rumgumption nor that comes till. Timmer was the 
only thing I not ( needed ) to spier for ; the lave lies to ony 
body’s han’, — a few cartfu’s o’ sods frae the hill ahint the 
hoose, an’ a han’fu’ or twa o’ stanes for the chimla oot o’ the 
quarry, — there’s eneuch there for oor turn ohn blastit mair; 
an’ we’ll saw the wood oursel’s ; an’ gin we had ance the wa’s 
up, we can carry on the inside at oor leisur’. That’s the way 
’at the Maker does wi’ oorsels ; he gie’s us the wa’s an the 
material, an’ a whole lifetime, maybe mair, to furnish the hoose.” 

“ Capital ! ” exclaimed Hugh. “I’ll work like a horse, and 
we’ll be at it the morn.” 

“I’se be at it afore daylicht, an’ ane or twa o’ the lads’ll 
len’ me a han’ efter wark-hours; and there’s yersel’, Mr. 
Sutherlan’, worth ane an’ a half o’ ordinary workers; an 
we’ll hae truff aneuch for the wa’s in a jiffey. I'll mark a 
feow saplin’s i’ the wud here at denner-time, and we’ll hae 
them for bauks, an’ couples, an’ things ; an’ there’s plenty dry 
eneuch for beurds i’ the shed, an’ bein’ but a lean-to, there’ll 
be but half wark, ye ken.” 


66 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


They went out directly, in the moonlight, to choose the sjot; 
and soon came to the resolution to build it so that a certain 
back door, which added more to the cold in winter than to the 
convenience in summer, should be the entrance to the new 
chamber. The chimney was the chief difficulty ; but all the 
materials being in the immediate neighborhood, and David 
capable of turning his hands to anything, no obstruction was 
feared. Indeed, he set about that part first, as was necessary ; 
and had soon built a small chimney, chiefly of stones and lime ; 
while, under his directions, the walls were making progress at 
the same time, by the labor of Hugh and two or three of the 
young men from the farm, who were most ready to oblige 
David with their help, although they were still rather unfriend- 
ly to the colliginer , as they called him. But Hugh’s frank- 
ness soon won them over, and they all formed within a day or 
two a very comfortable party of laborers. They worked very 
hard ; for if the rain should set in before the roof was on, 
their labor would be almost lost from the soaking of the walls. 
They built them of turf, very thick, with a slight slope on the 
outside towards the roof ; before commencing which, they par- 
tially cut the windows out of the walls, putting wood across to 
support the top. I should have explained that the turf used in 
building was the upper and coarser part of the peat, which 
wa?, plentiful in the neighborhood. The tliatch-eaves of the 
cottage itself projected over the joining of the new roof, so as 
to protect it from the drip ; and David soon put a thick thatch 
of new straw upon the little building. Second-hand windows 
were procured at the village, and the holes in the walls cut to 
their size. They next proceeded to the saw-pit on the estate, 
— for almost everything necessary for keeping up the offices 
was done on the farm itself, — where they sawed thin planks 
of deal, to floor and line the room, and make it more cosey. 
These David planed upon one side ; and when they were nailed 
against slight posts all round the walls, and the joints filled in 
with putty, the room began to look most enticingly habitable. 
The roof had not been thatched two days before the rain set 
in ; but now they could work quite comfortably inside ; and as 
the space was small, and the forenights were long, they had 
it quite finished before the end of November. David bought 
an ol i table in the village, and one or two chairs ; mended them 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


67 


up ; made a kind of rustic sofa or settle ; put a few book -shelves 
against the wall ; had a peat fire lighted on the hearth every 
day ; and at length, one Saturday evening, they had supper in 
the room, and the place was consecrated henceforth to friend- 
ship and learning. From this time, every evening, as soon as 
lessons, and the meal which immediately followed them, were 
over, Hugh betook himself to the cottage, on the shelves of 
which all his books by degrees collected themselves, and there 
spent the whole long evening, generally till ten o’clock ; the 
first part alone, reading or writing ; the last in company with 
his pupils, who, diligent as ever, now of course made more 
rapid progress than before, inasmuch as the lessons were both 
longer and more frequent. The only drawback to their com- 
fort was, that they seemed to have shut Janet out; but she 
soon remedied this, by contriving to get through with her 
house-work earlier than she had ever done before ; and, taking 
her place on the settle behind them, knitted away diligently at 
her stocking, which, to inexperienced eyes, seemed always the 
same, and always in the same state of progress, notwithstanding 
that she provided the hose of the whole family, blue and gray, 
ribbed and plain. Her occasional withdrawings, to observe the 
progress of the supper, were only a cheerful break in the con- 
tinuity of labor. Little would the passer-by imagine that beneath 
that roof, which seemed worthy only of the name of a shed, there 
sat, in a snug little homely room, such a youth as Hugh, such a 
girl as Margaret, such a grand peasant king as David, and such 
a true-hearted mother to them all as Janet. There were no 
pictures and no music ; for Margaret kept her song3 for solitary 
places ; but the sound of verse was often the living wind which 
set a-waving the tops of the trees of knowledge, fast growing in 
the sunlight of Truth. The thatch of that shed-roof was Tike 
the grizzled hair of David, beneath which lay the temple not 
only of holy but of wise and poetic thought. It was like the 
sylvan abode of the gods, where the architecture and music are 
all of their own making ; in their kind the more beautiful, the 
more simple and rude ; and if more doubtful in their intent, 
and less precise in their finish, yet therein the fuller of life 
and its grace, and the more suggestive of deeper harmo- 
nies. 


68 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

HERALDRY. 

And like his father of face and of stature, 

And false of love — it came him of nature; 

As doth the fox Renard, the fox’s son ; 

Of kinde, he coud his old father’s wone, 

Without lore, as can a drake swim, 

When it is caught, and carried to the brim. 

Chaucer. — Legend of Phillis. 

Of course, the yet more lengthened absences of Hugh from 
the house were subjects of remark as at the first ; but Hugh 
had made up his mind not to trouble himself the least about 
that. For some time Mrs. Glasford took no notice of them to 
himself; but one evening, just as tea was finished, and Hugh 
was rising to go, her restraint gave way, and she uttered one 
spiteful speech, thinking it, no doubt, so witty that it ought to 
see the light. 

“Ye’re a day-laborer it seems, Mr. Sutherlan’, an’ gang 
hame at night.” 

“Exactly so, madam,” rejoined Hugh. “There is no 
other relation between you and me than that of work and 
wages. You have done your best to convince me of that, by 
making it impossible for me to feel that this house is in any 
sense my home.” 

With this grand speech he left the room, and from that time 
till the day of his final departure from Turriepuffit there was 
not a single allusion made to the subject. 

He soon reached the cottage. When he entered the new 
room, which was always called Mr. Sutherland’ s study, the 
mute welcome afforded him by the signs of expectation, in the 
glow of the waiting fire, and the outspread arms of the elbow- 
chair, which was now called his, as well as the room, made 
ample amends to him for the unfriendliness of Mrs. Glasford. 
Going to the shelves to find the books he wanted, he saw that 
they had been carefully arranged on one shelf, and that the 
others were occupied with books belonging to the house. He 
looked at a few of them. They were almost all old books, and 
such as may be found in many Scotch cottages ; for instance, 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


69 


Boston’s “Fourfold State,” in which the ways of God and 
man may be seen through a fourfold fog ; Erskine’s u Divine 
Sonnets,” which will renay the reader in laughter for the pain 
it costs his reverence, producing much the same effect that a 
Gothic cathedral might, reproduced by the pencil and from the 
remembrance of a Chinese artist, who had seen it once ; 
u Drelincourt on Death,” with the famous ghost-hoax of De 
Foe, to help the bookseller to the sale of the unsalable ; the 
“ Scots Worthies,” opening of itself at the memoir of Mr. 
Alexander Peden; the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” that wonderful 
inspiration, failing never save when the theologian would 
sometimes snatch the pen from the hand of the poet; “ Theron 
and Aspasio;” “Village Dialogues;” and others of a like 
class. To these must be added a rare edition of “ Blind Har- 
ry.” It was clear to Hugh, unable as he was fully to appre- 
ciate the wisdom of David, that it was not from such books as 
these that he had gathered it ; yet such books as these formed 
all his store. He turned from them, found his own, and sat 
down to read. By and by David came in. 

“I’m ower sune, I doubt, Mr. Sutherlan. I’m disturbin’ 
ye.” 

“Not at all,” answered Hugh. “Besides, I am not much 
in a reading mood this evening ; Mrs. Glasford has been an- 
noying me again.” 

“ Poor body ! What’s she been sayin’ noo ? ” 

Thinking to amuse David, Hugh recounted the short pas- 
sage between them recorded above. David, however, listened 
with a very different expression of countenance from what 
Hugh had anticipated ; and, when he had finished, took up the 
conversation in a kind of apologetic tone. 

“ Weel, but ye see,” said he, folding his palms together, 
‘ she hasna’ jist had a’thegither fair play. She does na come 
o’ a guid breed. Man, it’s a fine thing to come o’ a guid 
breed. They hae a hantle to answer for ’at come o’ decent 
forbears.” 

“ I thought she brought the laird a good property,” said 
Hugh, not quite understanding David. 

“ Ow, ay, she brocht him gowpenfu’s o’ siller; but h;>o 
was’t gotten ? An’ ye ken it’s no riches ’at ’ill mak’ a guid 
foeed — ’cep’ it be o’ maggots. The richer cheese the mair 


70 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


maggots, ye ken. Ye xnauna speyk o’ this ; but the mistress’s 
father was weel kent to hae made his siller by fardins and 
bawbees, in creepin’, crafty ways. He was a bit merchar.’ in 
Aberdeen, an’ aye keepit his thoom weel ahint the peint o’ the 
ell wan’, sae ’at he made an inch or twa upo’ ilka yard he 
sauld. Sae he took frae his soul, and pat intill his siller-bag, 
an’ had little to gie his dochter but a guid tocher. Mr. Suth- 
erland it’s a fine thing to come o’ dacent fowk. Noo, to luik 
at yersel’ ; I ken naething aboot yer family ; but ye seem at 
eesicht to come o’ a guid breed for the bodily part for ye. 
That’s a sma’ matter ; but frae what I hae seen — an’ I trust 
in God I’m no mista’en — ye come o’ the richt breed for the 
min’ as weel. I’m no flatterin’ ye, Mr. Sutherlan’ ; but jist 
layin’ it upo’ ye, ’at gin ye had an honest father and gran’fa- 
ther, an’ especially a guid mither, ye hae a heap to answer 
for ; an’ ye ought never to be hard upo’ them ’at’s sma’ creep- 
in’ creatures, for they canna help it sae weel as the like o’ you 
and me can.” 

David was not given to boasting. Hugh had never heard any- 
thing suggesting it from his lips before. He turned full round 
and looked at him. On his face lay a solemn quiet, either 
from a feeling of his own responsibility, or a sense of the ex- 
cuse that must be made for others. What he had said about 
signs of breed in Hugh’s exterior certainly applied to himself 
as well. His carriage was full of dignity, and a certain rustic 
refinement ; his voice was wonderfully gentle, but deep ; and 
slowest when most impassioned. He seemed to have come of 
some gigantic antediluvian breed ; there was something of the 
Titan slumbering about him. He would have been a stern 
man, but for an unusual amount of reverence that seemed to 
overflood the sternness, and change it into strong love. No 
one had ever seen him thoroughly angry ; his simple displeas- 
ure with any of the laborers, the quality of whose work was 
deficient, would go further than the laird’s oaths. 

Hugh sat looking at David, who supported the look with 
that perfect calmness that come3 of unconscious simplicity. 
At length Hugh’s eye sank before David’s, as he said : — 

u I wish I had known your father, then, David.” 

u My father was sic a ane as I tauld ye the ither day, Mr. 
Sutherlan’. Ttiz a’ richt there. A puir, semple, God-fearin’ 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


n 


shepherd, ’at never gae his dog an ill-deserved word, nor took 
the skin o’ ony puir lammie, wha’s woo’ he was clippin’, 
at ween the shears. He was weel worthy o’ the grave ’at he 
wan till at last. An’ my mither was jist sic like, wi’ aiblins 
raither mair heid nor my father. They’re her beuks maistly 
upo’ the skelf there abune yer ain, Mr. Sutherlan’. I honor 
them for her sake, though I seldom trouble them mysel’. 
She gae me a kin’ o’ a scunner at them, honest woman, wi’ 
garrin’ me read at them o’ Sundays, till they near scomfisht 
a’ the guid ’at was in me by nater. There’s doctrine for ye, 
Mr. Sutherlan’ ! ” added David, with a queer laugh. 

“I thought that they could hardly be your books/' said 
Hugh. 

But I hae ae odd beuk, an’ that brings me upo’ my pedi- 
gree, Mr. Sutherlan’ ; for the puirest man has as lang a pedi- 
gree as the greatest, only he kens less aboot it, that’s a’. An’ 
I wat, for yer lords and ladies, it’s no a’ to their credit ’at’s 
tauld o’ their hither-come ; an’ that’s a’ against the breed, ye 
ken. A wilfu’ sin in the father may be a sinfu’ weakness 
i’ the son ; an’ that’s what I ca’ no fair play.” 

So saying, David went to his bedroom, whence he returned 
with a very old-looking book, which he laid on the table before 
Hugh. He opened it, and saw that it was a volume of J acob 
Boehmen, in the original language. He found out afterwards, 
upon further inquiry, that it was in fact a copy of the first 
edition of his first work, “ The Aurora,” printed in 1612. On 
the title-page was written a name, either in German or Old 
English character, he was not sure which ; but he was able to 
read it, — Martin Elginbrodde. David, having given him 
time to see all this, went on : — 

1 1 That buik has been in oor fiimily far langer nor I ken. 
I needna say I canna read a word o’t, nor I never heard o' ane 
at could. But I canna help tellin’ ye a curious thing, Mr. 
Sutherlan’, in connection wi’ the name on that buik ; there’s 
a gravestane, a verra auld ane, — hoo auld I canna weel mak’ 
out, though I gaed ends-errand to Aberdeen to see’t, — an’ the 
name upo’ that gravestane is Martin Elginbrod , but made 
mention o’ in a strange fashion ; an’ I’m no sure a’thegither 
aboot hoo ye’ll tak’ it, for it soun’s rather fearsome at first 
hearin’ o’t. But ye’se hae’t as I read it : — 


72 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


u * Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde: 
llae mercy o’ my soul, Lord God; 

As I wad do, were I Lord God, 

And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.’ ” 

Certainly Hugh could not help a slight shudder at whai 
seemed to him the irreverence of the epitaph, if, indeed, it 
was not deserving of a worse epithet. But he made no re* 
mark ; and, after a moment’s pause, David resumed : — 

“ I was unco ill-pleased wi’t at the first, as ye may suppose, 
Mr. Sutherlan’ ; but, after a while, I begude (began) an’ gaed 
through twa or three bits o’ reasonin’ s aboot it in this way : 
By the natur’ o’t, this maun be the man’s ainmakin’, this epi- 
taph ; for no ither body cud hae dune’t ; and he had left it in’s 
will to be pitten upo’ the deid-stane, nae doot. I’ the contem- 
plation o’ deith, a man wad no be lik’ly to desire the perpetu- 
ation o’ a blasphemy upo’ a table o’ stone, to stan’ against him 
for centuries i’ the face o’ God an’ man ; therefore it cudna 
ha’ borne the luik to him o’ the presumptuous word o’ a proud 
man evenin’ himsel’ wi’ the Almichty. Sae what was’t, then, 
’at made him mak’ it ? It seems to me, — though I confess, Mr. 
Sutherlan’, I may be led astray by the nateral desire ’at a man 
has to think weel o’ his ain forbears, — for ’at he was a forbear 
o’ my ain, I canna weel doot, the name bein’ by no means a 
common ane, in Scotland, onyway, — I’m saying, it seems to 
me, that it's jist a darin’ way, maybe a childlike way, o’ judg- 
in’, as Job micht ha’ dune, ‘ the Lord by himsel’; ’ an’ sayin’, 
’at gin he, Martin Elginbrod, wad hae mercy, surely the Lord 
was not less mercifu’ than he was. The offspring o’ the Most 
High was, as it were, aware o’ the same spirit i’ the father o’ 
him, as muved in himsel’. He felt ’at the mercy in himsel’ 
was ane o’ the best things ; an’ he cudna think ’at there wad 
be less o’t i’ the Father o’ lichts, frae whom cometh ilka guid 
an’ perfeck gift. An’ maybe he remembered ’at the Saviour 
himsel’ said, ‘ Be ye perfect as your Father in heaven is per- 
fect ; ’ and that the perfection o’ God, as he had jist pinted 
oot afore, consisted in causin’ his bonny sun to shine on the 
evil an’ the good, an’ his caller rain to fa’ upo’ the just an’ 
the unjust.” 

It may well be doubted whether David’s interpretation of 
the epitaph was the correct one. It will appear to most of 
my readers to breathe rather of doubt lighted up by hope, 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


73 


than of that strong faith which David read in it. But whether 
from family partiality, and consequent unwillingness to be- 
lieve that his ancestor had been a man who, having led a wild, 
erring, and evil life, turned at last towards the mercy of God 
as his only hope, which the words might imply, or simply 
that he saw this meaning to be the best, this was the inter- 
pretation which David had adopted. 

“ But/’ interposed Hugh, “ supposing he thought all that* 
why should he therefore have it carved on his tombstone? ” 

“ I hae thocht aboot that too,” answered David. “ For ae 
thing, a body has but feow ways o’ sayin’ his say to his brith- 
er-men. Robbie Burns cud do’t in sang efter sang ; but may- 
be this epitaph was a’ that auld Martin was able to mak’. He 
michtna hae had the gift o’ utterance. But there may be mair 
in’t nor that. Gin the clergy o’ thae times warna a gey han- 
tle mair enlichtened nor a fowth o’ the clergy hereabouts, he 
wad hae heard a heap aboot the glory o’ God, as the thing ’at 
God himsel’ was maist anxious aboot uphaudin’, jist like a prood 
creater o’ a king ; an’ that he wad mak’ men, an’ feed them, 
an’ deed them, an’ gie them braw wives an’ toddlin’ bairnies, 
an’ syne damn them, a’ for’s ain glory. Maybe ye wadna get 
many o’ them ’at wad speyk sae fair-oot nooadays, for they 
gang wi’ the tide jist like the lave ; but i’ my auld minny’s 
buiks, I hae read jist as muckle as that, an’ waur too. Mony 
ane ’at spak’ like that had nae doot a guid meanin’ in’t ; but, 
hech, man ! it’s a awsome deevilich way o’ saying a holy thing. 
Noo, what better could puir auld Martin do, seein’ he had no 
ae word to say i’ the kirk a’ his lifelang, nor jist say his ae 
word, as pithily as micht be, i’ the kirkyard efter he was deid ; 
an’ ower an’ ower again, wi’ a tongue o’ stane, lat them tak’ 
it or lat it alane ’at likit ? That’s a’ my defence o’ my auld 
iuckie-daddy. Heaven rest his brave auld soul ! ” 

“ But are we not in danger,” said Hugh, “ of thinking too 
lightly and familiarly of the Maker, when we proceed to judge 
him so by ourselves ? ” 

“Mr. Sutherlan’,” replied David, very solemnly, “I dinna 
thenk I can be in muckle danger o’ lichlyin’ him, whan I ken 
in my ain sel’, as weel as she ’at was healed o’ her plague, ’at 
I wad be a horse i’ that pleuch, or a pig in that stye, not 
merely if it was his will, — for wha can stan’ against that ? — 


74 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


but if it was for his glory ; ay, an’ comfort mysel’, a’ the time 
the change was passin’ upo’ me, wi’ the thocht that, efter an’ 
a’, his blessed ban’s made the pigs too.” 

“ But, a moment ago, David, you seemed to me to be making 
rather little of his glory.” 

“O’ his glory, as they consider glory — ay ; efter a warldly 
fashion that’s no better nor pride, an’ in him would only be a 
greater pride. But his glory ! consistin’ in his trowtli an’ 
lovin’-kindness — (man ! that’s a bonny word) — an’ grand 
self-forgettin’ devotion to his creaters — lord ! man, it’s un- 
speakable. I care little for his glory either, gin by that ye 
mean the praise o’ men. A heap o’ the anxiety for the spread 
o’ his glory seems to me to be but a desire for the sempathy o’ 
itlier fowk. There’s no fear but men'll praise him, a’ in guid 
time, — that is, whan they can. But, Mr. Sutherlan’, for the 
glory o’ God, raither than, if it were possible, one jot or one tittle 
should fail of his entire perfection of holy beauty, I call God to 
witness, I would gladly go to hell itsel’ ; for no evil worth the 
full name can befall the earth or ony creater in’t as long as 
God is what he is. For the glory o’ God, Mr. Sutherlan’ , I 
wad die the deith. For the will o’ God, I’m ready for ony- 
thing he likes. I canna surely be in muckle danger o’lichtlyin’ 
him. I glory in my God.” 

The almost passionate earnestness with which David spoke 
would alone have made it impossible for Hugh to reply at once. 
After a few moments, however, he ventured to ask the ques- 
tion : — 

“ Would you do nothing that other people should know God, 
then, David? ” 

“ Ony thing ’at he likes. But I would tak’ tent o’ interferin’. 
He’s at it himsel’ frae mornin’ to nicht, frae year’s en’ to 
year’s en’.” 

1 1 But you seem to me to make out that God is nothing but 
love ! ” 

“ Ay, naething but love. What for no? ” 

“ Because we are told he is just.” 

“ Would he be lang just if he didna lo’e us ? ” 

“ But doe/5 he not punish sin? ” 

“ Would it be ony kin’ness no to punish sin? No to use a’ 
means to pit awa’ the ae ill thing frae us ? Whatever may be 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


75 


meant by the place o’ meesery, depen’ upo’t, Mr. Sutherland 
it's only anither form o’ love, love shinin’ through the fogs o’ ill, 
an’ sae gart leuk something verra different thereby. Man, raither 
nor see my Maggy, — an’ ye’ll no doot ’at I lo’e her, — raither 
nor see my Maggy do an ill thing, I’d see her lyin’ deid at 
my feet. But supposin’ the ill thing ance dune, it’s no at my 
feet I wad lay her, but upo’ my heart, wi’ my auld arms aboot 
her, to baud the further ill aff o’ her. An’ shall mortal man 
be more just than God? Shall a man be more pure than his 
Maker ? 0 my God ! my God ! ” 

The entrance of Margaret would have prevented the prosecu- 
tion of this conversation, even if it had not already drawn to a 
natural close. Not that David would not have talked thus 
before his daughter, but simply that minds, like instruments, 
need to be brought up to the same pitch, before they can 
“ atone together,” and that one feels this instinctively on the 
entrance of another who has not gone through the same im- 
mediate process of gradual elevation of tone. 

Their books and slates were got out, and they sat down to 
their work ; but Hugh could not help observing that David, in 
the midst of his lines and angles and algebraic computations, 
would, every now and then, glance up at Margaret, with a look 
of tenderness in his face yet deeper and more delicate in its 
expression than ordinary. Margaret was, however, quite un- 
conscious of it, pursuing her work with her ordinary even dili- 
gence. But Janet observed it. 

“ What ails the bairn, Dawvid, ’at ye leuk at her that get? ” 
said she. 

u Naething ails her, woman. Do ye never leuk at a body 
but when something ails them ? ” 

“ Ow, ay ; but no that get.” 

11 Weel, maybe I was thinkin’ hoo I wad leuk at her gin 
ony thing did ail her.” 

“ Hoot ! hoot ! dinna further the ill hither by makin’ a bien 
doonsittin’ an’ a bed for’t.” 

All David’s answer to this was one of his own smiles. 

At supper, for it happened to be Saturday, Hugh said : — 

“I’ve been busy between whiles, inventing, or perhaps dis- 
covering, an etymological pedigree for you, David ! ” 

“Weel, lat’s hear’t,” said David. 


76 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“First, do you know that that volume with your ances- 
tor’s name on it, was written by an old German shoemaker, per- 
haps only a cobbler, for anything I know ? ” 

“ I l;now nothing aboot it, more or less,” answered David. 

“He was a wonderful man. Some people think he was ah 
most inspired.” 

“ Maybe, maybe,” was all David’s doubtful response. 

“ At all events, though I know nothing about it myself, he 
must have written wonderfully for a cobbler.” 

“ For my pairt,” replied David, “ if I see no wonder in 
the man, I can see but little in the cobbler. What for shouldna 
a cobbler write wonnerfully, as weel as anither? It’s a trade 
’at furthers meditation. My grandfather was a cobbler, as ye 
ca’t ; an’ they say he was no fule in his ain way either.” 

“Then it does go in the family!” cried Hugh, trium- 
phantly. “ I was in doubt at first whether your name referred 
to the breadth of your shoulders, David, as transmitted from 
some ancient sire, whose back was an Ellwand-broad ; for the 
g might come from a w or v, for anything I know to the con- 
trary. But it would have been braid in that case. And now 
I am quite convinced that that Martin or his father was a Ger- 
man, a friend of old Jacob Boehmen, who gave him the book 
himself, and was besides of the same craft ; and he coming to 
this country with a name hard to be pronounced, they found a 
resemblance in the sound of it to his occupation ; and so grad- 
ually corrupted his name, to them uncouth, into Elsynbrod , 
Elshinbrod , thence Elginbrod , with a soft g, and lastly Elgin - 
brod , as you pronounce it now, with a hard g. This name, 
turned from Scotch into English, would then be simply Mar- 
tin Awlbore. The cobbler is in the family, David, descended 
from Jacob Boehmen himself, by the mother’s side.” 

This heraldic blazon amused them all very much, and David 
expressed his entire concurrence with it, declaring it to be in- 
controvertible. Margaret laughed heartily. 

Besides its own beauty, two things made Margaret’s laugh 
of some consequence : one was, that it was very rare ; and the 
other, that it revealed her two regular rows of dainty white 
teeth, suiting well to the whole build of the maiden. She was 
graceful and rather tall, with a head which, but for its small- 
ness, might have seemed too heavy for the neck thatsupparted 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


77 


it, so ready it always was to droop like a snowdrop. The only 
parts about her which Hugh disliked were her hands and feet. 
The former certainly had been reddened and roughened by 
household work ; but they were well-formed notwithstanding. 
The latter he had never seen, notwithstanding the barefoot 
habits of Scotch maidens ; for he saw Margaret rarely except 
in the evenings, and then she was dressed to receive *dm. Cer- 
tainly, however, they were very far from following the shape of 
the clumsy country shoes, by which he misjudged their pro- 
portions. Had he seen them, as he might have seen them 
some part of any day during the summer, their form at least 
would have satisfied him. 


CHAPTER XIY. 


WINTER. 

Out of whose womb came the ice? and the hoary frost of heaven, who hath gen 
dered it ? The waters are hid as with a stone, and the face of the deep is frozen. 

He giveth snow like wool ; he scattered the hoar frost like ashes. 

b Job xxxviii. 29, 30 ; Psalm cxlvn. 16. 

Winter was fairly come at last. A black frost had bound 
the earth for many days ; and at length a peculiar sensation, 
almost a smell of snow in the air, indicated an approaching 
storm. The snow fell at first in a few large, unwilling flakes, 
that fluttered slowly and heavily to the earth, where they lay 
like the foundation of the superstructure that was about to fol- 
low. Faster and faster they fell - wonderful multitudes of 
delicate crystals, adhering in shapes of beauty which outvied 
all that jeweller could invent or execute of ethereal, starry 
forms, structures of evanescent yet prodigal loveliness — till 
the whole air was obscured by them, and night came on, hast- 
ened by an hour, from the gathering of their white darkness. In 
the morning all the landscape was transfigured. The snow had 
ceased to fall ; but the whole earth, houses, fields and fences, 
ponds and streams, were changed to whiteness. But most 


78 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


wonderful looked the trees, — every bough and every twig 
thickened, and bent earthward with its own individual load of 
the fairy-ghost birds. Each retained the semblance of its own 
form, wonderfully, magically altered by its thick garment of 
radiant whiteness, shining gloriously in the sunlight. It was 
the shroud of dead nature ; but a shroud that seemed to pre- 
figure a lovely resurrection; for the very death-rope was 
unspeakably, witchingly beautiful. Again at night the snow 
fell ; and again and again, with intervening days of bright 
sunshine. Every morning the first fresh footprints were a 
new wonder to the living creatures, the young-hearted amongst 
them at least, who lived and moved in this death-world, this 
sepulchral planet, buried in the shining air before the eyes of 
its sister-stars in the blue, deathless heavens. Paths had to be 
cleared in every direction towards the out-houses, and again 
cleared every morning ; till at last the walls of solid rain stood 
higher than the head of little Johnnie, as he was still called, 
though he was twelve years old. It was a great delight to him 
to wander through the snow-avenues in every direction ; and 
great fun it was both to him and his brother, when they were tired 
of snowballing each other and every living thing about the 
place except their parents and tutor, to hollow out mysterious 
caves and vaulted passages. Sometimes they would carry 
these passages on from one path to within an inch or two of 
another, and there lie in wait till some passer-by, unweeting of 
harm, was just opposite their lurking cave ; when they would 
dash through the solid wall of snow with a hideous yell, al- 
most endangering the wits of the maids, and causing a recoil 
and startled ejaculation even of the strong man on whom they 
chanced to try their powers of alarm. Hugh himself was once 
glad to cover the confusion of his own fright with the hearty 
fit of laughter into which the perturbation of the boys, upon 
discovering whom they had startled, threw him. It was rare 
fun to them ; but not to the women about the house, who 
moved from place to place in a state of chronic alarm, scared 
by the fear of being scared; till one of them going into hysterics, 
real or pretended, it was found necessary to put a stop to the 
practice ; not, however, before Margaret had had her share of 
the jest. Hugh happened to be looking out of his window at 
the moment — watching her indeed, as she passed towards th* 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


7 $ 


kitchen with some message from her mother — when an inde- 
scribable monster, a chaotic mass of legs and snow, burst as if out 
of the earth, upon her. She turned pale as the snow around her 
(and Hugh had never observed before how dark her eyes 
were), as she sprang back with the grace of a startled deer. 
She uttered no cry, however, perceiving in a moment who it was, 
gave a troubled little smile, and passed on her way as if nothing 
had happened. Hugh was not sorry when maternal orders were 
issued against the practical joke. The boys did not respect their 
mother very much, but they dared not disobey her, when she 
spoke in a certain tone. 

There was no pathway cut to David’s cottage ; and no track 
trodden, except what David, coming to the house sometimes, 
and Hugh going every afternoon to the cottage, made between 
them. Hugh often went to the knees in snow, but was well 
dried and warmed by Janet’s care when he arrived. She had 
always a pair of stockings and slippers ready for him at the fire, 
to be put on the moment of his arrival ; and exchanged again 
for his own, dry and warm, before he footed once more the 
ghostly waste. When neither moon was up nor stars were out, 
there was a strange eerie glimmer from the snow that lighted 
the way home ; and he thought there must be more light from 
it than could be accounted for merely by the reflection of every 
particle of light that might fall upon it from other sources. 

Margaret was not kept to the house by the snow, even when 
it was falling. She went out as usual, — not of course wandering 
far, for walking was difficult now. But she was in little danger 
of losing her way, for she knew the country as well as any one ; 
and although its face was greatly altered by the filling up of 
its features, and the uniformity of the color, yet those features 
were discernible to her experienced eye through the sheet 
that covered them. It was only necessary to walk on the tops of 
dykes, and other elevated ridges, to keep clear of the deep snow. 

There were many paths between the cottages and the farms in 
the neighborhood, in which she could walk with comparative 
ease and comfort. But she preferred wandering away through 
the fields and towards the hills. Sometimes she would come 
home like a creature of the snow, born of it, amd living in it • 
so covered was she from head to foot with its flakes. David 
used to smile at her with peculiar complacency on such occa- 


80 


DAVID ELGIXBROD. 


sions. It was evident that it pleased him she could be the 
playmate of nature. Janet was not altogether indulgent to 
these freaks, as she considered them, of Marget , — she had 
quite given up calling her Meg, “ sin’ she took to the beuk so 
eident.” But whatever her mother might think of it, Mar- 
garet was in this way laying up a store not only of bodily and 
mental health, but of resources for thought and feeling, of 
secret understandings and communions with nature, and 
everything simple, and strong, and pure through nature, than 
which she could have accumulated nothing more precious. 

This kind of weather continued for some time, till the 
people declared they had never known a storm last so long, 
“ ohn ever devallt,” that is, without intermission. But the 
frost grew harder ; and then the snow, instead of falling in 
large, adhesive flakes, fell in small dry flakes, of which the boys 
could make no snaw-ba’s. All the time, however, there was 
no wind ; and this not being a sheep-country, there was little 
uneasiness or suffering occasioned by the severity of the weather, 
beyond what must befall the poorer classes in every northern 
country during the winter. 

One day, David heard that a poor old man of his acquaint- 
ance was dying, and immediately set out to visit him, at a 
distance of two or three miles. He returned in the evening, 
only in time for his studies ; for there was of course little or 
nothing to be done at present in the way of labor. As he sat 
down to the table, he said : — 

“ I hae seen a wonderfu’ sicht sin’ I saw you, Mr. Sutberlan 5 . 
I gaed to see an auld Christian, whase body an’ brain are nigh 
worn oot. He was never onything remarkable for intellect 
and jist took what the minister tel It him for true, an’ keepit 
the guid o’t ; for his hert was aye richt, an’ his faith a hantle 
stronger than maybe it had ony richt to be, accordin’ to his 
ain opingans ; but, hech ! there’s something far better nor his 
opingans i’ the hert o’ ilka God-fearing’ body. Whan I gaed 
butt the boose, he was sittin’ in’s auld arm-chair by the side o’ 
the fire, an’ his face luikit dazed like. There was no licht 
in’t but what cam’ noo an’ than frae a low i’ the fire. 
The snaw was driftin’ a wee aboot the bit winnock, an’ his 
auld een was fiked upo’t ; an’ a’ ’at he said, takin’ no notice o’ 
me, was jist, c The birdies is flutterin’ ; the birdies is flut- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


81 


terinV I spak’ till him, an’ tried to roose him, wi’ ae thing 
after anither ; bit I micht as weel hae spoken to the door-cheek 
for a’ the notice that he took. Never a word he spak’, bu» 
aye, : The birdies is fluttering’.’ At last, it cam’ to my min 
’at the body was aye fu’ o’ ane o’ the psalms in particler: 
an’ sae I jist said till him at last, 1 John, hae ye forgotten the 
twenty- third psalm? ’ — 1 Forgotten the twenty-third psalm ! ' 
quo’ he ; an’ his face lighted up in a moment frae the inside • 
‘ “ The Lord's my shepherd ,” — an’ I hae followed him through 
a’ the smorin’ drift o’ the warl’, an’ he’ll bring me to the green 
pastures an’ the still waters o’ his summer-kingdom at the 
lang last. “ I shall not want An’ I hae wanted for nae- 
thing, naething.’ He had been a shepherd himsel’ in’s young 
days. And soon he gaed, wi’ a kin’ o’ a personal commentary 
on the haill psalm frae beginnin’ to en’, and syne he jist fell 
back into the auld croonin’ sang, 1 The birdies is flutterin’ ; ’ 
the birdies is flutterin’. The licht deid oot o’ his face, an’ a’ that 
I could say could na’ bring back the licht to his face, nor the sense 
to his tongue. He’ll sune be in a better warl’. Sae I was jist 
forced to leave him. But I promised his dochter, puir body, that 
I would ca’ again an’ see him the morn’s afternoon. It’s unco 
dowie wark for her ; for they hae scarce a neebor within reach o’ 
them, in case o’ a change ; an’ there had hardly been a creater 
inside o’ their door for a week.” 

The following afternoon, David set out according to his 
promise. Before his return, the wind, which had been threat- 
ening to wake all day, had risen rapidly, and now blew a 
snow-storm of its own. When Hugh opened the door to take 
his usual walk to the cottage, just as darkness was beginning 
to fall, the sight he saw made his young, strong heart dance 
with delight. The snow that fell made but a small part of the 
wild, confused turmoil and uproar of the tenfold storm. For 
the wind, raving over the surface of the snow, which, as I 
have already explained, lay nearly as loose as dry sand, swept 
it in thick, fierce clouds along with it, tearing it up and casting 
it down again no one could tell where, — for the whole air was 
filled with drift , as they call the snow when thus driven. A 
few hours of this would alter the face of the whole country, 
leaving some parts bare, and others buried beneath heaps on 
heaps of snow, called here snaw-vreaths For the word snow 


82 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


wreaths does not mean the lovely garlands hung upon every 
tree and hush in its feathery fall ; but awful mounds of drifted 
snow, that may he the smooth, soft, white sepulchres of dead 
men, smothered in the lapping folds of the almost solid wind. 
Path or way was none before him. He could see nothing but 
the surface of a sea of froth and foam, as it appeared to him 
with the spray torn from it, whirled in all shapes and contor- 
tions, and driven in every direction ; but chiefly in the main 
direction of the wind, in long, sloping spires of misty whiteness, 
swift as arrows, and as keen upon the face of him who dared 
to oppose them. 

Hugh plunged into it with a wild sense of life and joy. In 
the course of his short walk, however, if walk it could be 
called, which was one chain of plunges and emergings, strug- 
gles with the snow, and wrestles with the wind, he felt that it 
needed not a stout heart only, hut sound lungs and strong 
limbs as well, to battle with the storm, even for such a dis- 
tance. When he reached the cottage, he found J anet in con- 
siderable anxiety, not only about David, who had not yet re- 
turned, but about Margaret as well, whom she had not seen for 
some time, and who must be out somewhere in the storm, — 
“ the wull hizzie.” Hugh suggested that she might have gone 
to meet her father. 

11 The Lord forbid! ” ejaculated Janet. “The road lies 
ower the tap o’ the Halshach, as eerie and bare a place as ever 
was hill-moss, wi’ never a scoug or bield in’t frae the tae side 
to the tither. The win’ there jist gangs clean wud a’the- 
gither. An’ there’s mony a well-ee forbye, that gin ye fell 
in till’ t, ye wud never come at the boddom o’t. The Lord pre- 
serve’s ! I wis 1 Dawvid was hame.” 

“ How could you let him go, Janet? ” 

“ Lat him gang, laddie ! It’s a strang tow ’at wud haud or 
bin’ Dawvid, whan he considers he bud to gang, an’ ’twere in- 
till a deil’s byke. But I’m no that feared aboot him. I maist 
believe he’s under special protection, if ever man was or 
oucht to be ; an’ he's no more feared at the storm, nor gin the 
snaw was angels’ feathers flauchterin’ oot o’ their wings a’ 
aboot him. But I’m no easy i’ my min’ aboot, Maggy — the 
wull hizzie ! Gin she be meetin her father, an chance to miss 
him, the Lord kens what may come o’ her.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


83 


Hugh tried to comfort her but all that could be done waa 
to wait David’s return. The sto/m seemed to increase rather 
than abate its force. The footprints Hugh had made had all 
but vanished already at the very door of the house, which 
stood quite in the shelter of the fir-wood. As they looked 
out, a dark figure appeared within a yard or two of the house 

“ The Lord grant it be my bairn!” prayed poor Janet 
But it wa3 David, and alone. Janet gave a shriek. 

“ Dawvid, whaur’s Maggy? ” 

“ 1 haena seen the bairn,” replied David, in repressed per- 
turbation. “ She’s no theroot, is she, the nicht? ” 

“ She’s no at hame, Dawvid, that’s a ’ ’at I ken.” 

“ Whaur gaed she ? ” 

“The Lord kens. She’s smoored i’ the snaw by this 
time.” 

“ She’s i’ the Lord’s han’s, Janet, be she aneath a snaw- 
vraith. Dinna forget that, wuman. Hoo lang is’t sin’ ye 
missed her ? ” 

“An hour an’ mair ; I dinna ken hoo lang. I’m clean 
doitit wi’ dreid.” 

“I’ll awa’ an’ leuk for her. Jist haud the hert in her till 
I come back, Mr. Sutherlan’.” 

“ I won’t be left behind, David. I’m going with you.” 

“ Ye dinna ken what ye’re sayin’, Mr. Sutherlan’. I wud 
sune hae twa o’ ye to seek in place o’ ane.” 

“ Never heed me. I’m going on my own account, come 
what may.” 

“Weel, weel ; I downa bide to differ. I’m gaein’ up the 
burn-side ; haud ye ower to the farm, and spier gin onybody’s 
seen her ; an’ the lads’ll be oot to leuk for her in a jiffey. 
My puir lassie ! ” 

The sigh that must have accompanied the last words was 
lost in the wind, as they vanished in the darkness. Janet fell 
on her knees in the kitchen, with the door wide open, and the 
wind drifting in the powdery snow, and scattering it with the 
ashes from the hearth over the floor. A picture of more 
thorough desolation can hardly be imagined. She soon came 
to herself however ; and reflecting that, if the lost child was 
found, there must be a warm bed to receive her, else she 
might be a second time lost, she rose and shut the door, and 


84 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


mended the fire. It was as if the dumb .attitude of her prayer 
was answered; for, though she had never spoken or even 
thought a word, strength was restored to her distracted brain. 
When she had made every preparation she could think of, she 
went to the door again, opened it, and looked out. It was a 
region of howling darkness, tossed about by pale snow-drifts ; 
out of which it seemed scarce more hopeful that welcome faces 
would emerge than that they should return to our eyes from 
the vast unknown in which they vanish at last. She closed 
the door once more, and, knowing nothing else to be done, sat 
down on a chair, with her hands on her knees, and her eyes 
fixed on the door. The clock went on with its slow swing, 
tic — foe, tic — foe, an utterly inhuman time-measurer ; but she 
heard the sound of every second, through the midst of the 
uproar in the fir-trees, which bent their tall heads hissing tc 
the blast, and swinging about in the agony of their strife. Thr 
minutes went by, till an hour was gone, and there was neithei 
sound nor hearing but of the storm and the clock. Still she 
sat and stared, her eyes fixed on the door-latch. Suddenly, 
without warning, it was lifted, and the door opened. Hei 
heart bounded and fluttered like a startled bird ; but, alas ! the 
first words she heard were, “ Is she no come yet? ” It was 
her husband, followed by several of the farm servants. He 
had made a circuit to the farm, and finding that Hugh had 
never been there, hoped, though with trembling, that Mar- 
garet had already returned home. The question fell upon 
Janet’s heart like the sound of the earth on the coffin-lid, and 
her silent stare was the only answer David received. 

But at that very moment, like a dead man burst from the 
tomb, entered from behind the party at the open door, silent 
and white, with rigid features and fixed eyes, Hugh. He 
stumbled in, leaning forward with long strides, and dragging 
something behind him. He pushed and staggered through 
them as if he saw nothing before him ; and as they parted, 
horror-stricken, they saw that it was Margaret, or her dead 
body, that he dragged after him. He dropped her at her 
mother’s feet, and fell himself on the floor, before they were 
able to give him any support. David, who was quite calm, got 
the whiskey-bottle out, and tried to administer some to Mar- 
garet first ; but her teeth were firmly set, and to all appearance 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


85 


Bhe was dead. One of the young men succeeded better with 
Hugh, whom at David’s direction they took into the study ; 
while he and J anet got Margaret undressed and put to bed, 
with hot bottles all about her ; for in warmth lay the only 
hope of restoring her. After she had lain thus for a while, she 
gave a sigh ; and when they had succeeded in getting her to 
swallow some warm milk she began to breathe, and soon seemed 
to be only fast asleep. After half an hour’s rest and warming 
Hugh was able to move and speak. David would not allow 
him to say much, however, but got him to bed, sending word 
to the house that he could not go home that night. He and 
J anet sat by the fireside all night, listening to the storm that 
still raved without, and thanking God for both of the lives. 
Every few minutes a tiptoe excursion was made to the bed- 
side, and now and then to the other room. Both the patients 
slept quietly. Towards morning Margaret opened her eyes, 
and faintly called her mother ; but soon fell asleep once more, 
and did not awake again till nearly noon. When sufficiently 
restored to be able to speak, the account she gave was, that 
she had set out to meet her father; but, the storm increasing, 
she had thought it more prudent to turn. It grew in violence, 
however, so rapidly, and beat so directly in her face, that she 
was soon exhausted with struggling, and benumbed with the 
cold. The last thing she remembered was, dropping, as she 
thought, into a hole, and feeling as if she were going to sleep 
in bed, yet knowing it was death, and thinking how much 
sweeter it was than sleep. Hugh’s account was very strange 
and defective, but he was never able to add anything to it. 
He said that, when he rushed out into the dark, the storm 
seized him like a fury, beating him about the head and face 
with icy wings, till he was almost stunned. He took the road 
to the farm, which lay through the fir-wood ; but he soon be- 
came aware that he had lost his way, and might tramp about 
in the fir-wood till daylight, if he lived as long. Then, think- 
ing of Margaret, he lost his presence of mind, and rushed 
wildly along. He thought he must have knocked his head 
against the trunk of a tree, but he could not tell ; for he re- 
membered nothing more but that he found himself dragging 
Margaret, with his arms round her, through the snow, and 
nearing the light in the cottage window. Where or how he 


86 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


had found her, or what the light was that he was approaching, 
he had not the least idea. He had only a vague notion that 
he was rescuing Margaret from something dreadful. Mar- 
garet, for her part, had no recollection of reaching the fir- 
wood ; and as, long before morning, all traces were obliterated, 
the facts remained a mystery. Janet thought that David had 
some wonderful persuasion about it ; but he was never heard 
even to speculate on the subject. Certain it was, that Hugh 
had saved Margaret’s life. He seemed quite well next day, 
for he w T as of a very powerful and enduring frame for his 
years. She recovered more slowly, and perhaps never alto- 
gether overcame the effects of Death’s embrace that night. 
F rom the moment when Margaret w*as brought home the storm 
gradually died away, and by the morning all was still ; but 
many starry and moonlit nights glimmered and passed before 
that snow was melted away from the earth ; and many a night 
Janet awoke from her sleep with a cry, thinking she heard her 
daughter moaning, deep in the smooth ocean of snow, and could 
not find where she lay. 

The occurrences of this dreadful night could not lessen the 
interest his cottage friends felt in Hugh ; and a long winter 
passed with daily and lengthening communion both in study 
and in general conversation. I fear some of my younger 
readers will think my story slow, and say, “ What ! are 
they not going to fall in love with each other yet? We have 
been expecting it ever so long.” I have two answers to make 
to this. The first is, “ I do not pretend to know so much 
about love as you — excuse me — think you do ; and must 
confess I do not know whether they were in love with each 
other or not.” The second is, “ That I dare not pretend to 
understand thoroughly such a sacred mystery as the heart of 
Margaret ; and I should feel it rather worse than presumptuous 
to talk as if I did. Even Hugh’s is known to me only by 
gleams of light thrown, now and then, and here and there, 
upon it. Perhaps the two answers are only the same answer 
in different shapes.” 

Mrs. Glasford, however, would easily answer the question, 
if an answer is all that is wanted; for she, notwithstanding 
the facts of the story, which she could not fail to have heard 
correctly from the best authority, and notwithstanding the na- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


87 


ture of the night, which might have seemed sufficient to over- 
throw her conclusions, uniformly remarked, as often as theil 
escape was alluded to in h^r hearing : — 

“ Lat them tak’ it ! They had no business to be oot aboot 
thegither.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

TRANSITION. 

Tell me, bright boy, tell me, my golden lad, 

Whither away so frolio ? Why so glad ? 

What all thy wealth in council ? all thy state? 

Arc husks so dear ? troth, *tis a mighty rate. 

Richard Crashaw. 

The long Scotch winter passed by without any interruption 
to the growing friendship. But the spring brought a change ; 
and Hugh was separated from his friends sooner than he had 
anticipated, by more than six months. For his mother wrote 
to him in great distress, in consequence of a claim made upon 
her for some debt which his father had contracted, very prob- 
ably for Hugh’s own sake. Hugh could not bear that any 
such should remain undischarged, or that his father’s name 
should not rest in peace as well as his body and soul. He 
requested, therefore, from the laird, the amount due to him, 
and despatched almost the whole of it for the liquidation of 
this debt ; so that he was now as unprovided as before for the 
expenses of the coming winter at Aberdeen. But about the 
same time a fellow-student wrote to him with news of a situa- 
tion for the summer, worth three times as much as his present 
one, and to be procured through his friend’s interest. Hugh, 
having engaged himself to the laird only for the winter, al- 
though he had intended to stay till the commencement of the 
following session, felt that, although he would much rather re- 
main where he was, he must not hesitate a moment to accept 
his friend’s offer ; and therefore wrote at once. 

I will not attempt to describe the parting. It was very 
quiet, but very solemn and sad. Janet shovel} far more dis- 


88 


DAVID ELGINBKOD. 


tress than Margaret, for she wept outright. The tears stood 
in David’s eyes, as he grasped the youth’s hand in silence. 
Margaret was very pale ; that was all. As soon as Hugh dis- 
appeared with her father, who was going to walk with him to 
the village through which the coach passed, she hurried away 
and went to the fir-wood for comfort. 

Hugh found his new situation in Perthshire very different 
from the last. The heads of the family being themselves a 
lady and a gentleman, he found himself a gentleman too. He 
had more to do ; but his work left him plenty of leisure not- 
withstanding. A good portion of his spare time he devoted to 
verse-making, to which he felt a growing impulse ; and what- 
ever may have been the merit of his compositions, they did 
him intellectual good at least, if it were only through the pro- 
cess of their construction. He wrote to David after his arrival, 
telling him all about his new situation, and received in return a 
letter from Margaret, written at her father’s dictation. The 
mechanical part of letter-writing was rather laborious to David ; 
but Margaret wrote well, in consequence of the number of 
papers, of one sort and another, which she had written for 
Hugh. Three or four letters more passed between them at 
lengthening intervals. Then they ceased — on Hugh’s side 
first ; until, when on the point of leaving for Aberdeen, feeling 
somewhat conscience-stricken at not having written for so long, 
he scribbled a note to inform them of his approaching depart- 
ure, promising to let them know his address as soon as he 
found himself settled. Will it be believed that the session 
went by without the redemption of this pledge? Surely he 
could not have felt, to any approximate degree, the amount of 
obligation he was under to his humble friends. Perhaps, in- 
deed, he may have thought that the obligation was principally 
on their side ; as it would have been, if intellectual assistance 
could outweigh heart-kindness, and spiritual impulse and en- 
lightenment ; for, unconsciously in a great measure to himself, 
he had learned from David to regard in a new and more real 
aspect many of those truths which he had hitherto received as 
true, and which yet had till then produced in him no other 
than a feeling of the commonplace and uninteresting at the 
best. 

Desi4ps this, and many cognate advantages, a thousand 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


89 


seeds of truth must have surely remained in his mind, dropped 
there from the same tongue of -wisdom, and only waiting the 
friendly aid of a hard winter, breaking up the cold, selfish 
clods of clay, to share in the loveliness of a new spring, and be 
perfected in the beauty of a new summer. 

However this may have been, it is certain that he forgot his 
old friends far more than he himself could have thought it pos- 
sible he should ; for, to make the best of it, youth is easily at- 
tracted and filled with the present show, and easily forgets 
that which, from distance in time or space, has no show to 
show. Spending his evenings in the midst of merry faces, and 
ready tongues fluent with the tones of jollity, if not always of 
wit, which glided sometimes into no too earnest discussion of 
the difficult subjects occupying their student hours ; surrounded 
by the vapors of whiskey-toddy, and the smoke of cutty-pipes, 
till far into the short hours : then hurrying home, and lapsing 
into unrefreshing slumbers over intending study, or sitting up 
all night to prepare the tasks which had been neglected for a 
ball or an evening with Wilson, the great interpreter of Scot- 
tish song, — it is hardly to be wondered at that he should lose 
the finer consciousness of higher powers and deeper feelings, 
not from any behavior in itself wrong, but from the hurry, 
noise, and tumult in the streets of life, that, penetrating too 
deep into the house of life, dazed and stupefied the silent and 
lonely watcher in the chamber of conscience, far apart. He 
had no time to think or feel. 

The session drew to a close. He eschewed all idleness ; 
shut himself up, after class-hours, with his books ; ate little, 
studied hard, slept irregularly, working always best between 
midnight and two in the morning ; carried the first honors in 
most of his classes ; and at length breathed freely, but with a 
dizzy brain, and a face that revealed, in pale cheeks, and red, 
weary eyes, the results of an excess of mental labor, — an excess 
which is as injurious as any other kind of intemperance, the 
moral degradation alone kept out of view. Proud of his suc- 
cess, he sat down and wrote a short note, with a simple state- 
ment of it, to David; hoping, in his secret mind, that he 
would attribute his previous silence to an absorption in study 
which had not existed before the end of the session was quite 
it hand. Now that he had more time for reflection, he could 


90 


DAVID ELGINBIOD. 


not bear the idea that that noble rustic face should look disap- 
provingly, or, still worse, coldly upon him ; and he could not 
help feeling as if the old ploughman had taken the place of 
his father, as the only man of whom he must stand in awe, 
and who had a right to reprove him. He did reprove him 
now, though unintentionally. For David was delighted at 
having such good news from him ; and the uneasiness which he 
had felt, but never quite expressed, was almost swept away in 
the conclusion that it was unreasonable to expect the young 
man to give his time to them both absent and present, espe- 
cially when he had been occupied to such good purpose as this 
letter signified. So he was nearly at peace about him — 
though not quite. Hugh received from him the following let- 
ter in reply to his ; dictated, as usual, to his secretary, Mar- 
garet : — 

“ My dear Sir : Ye’ll be a great man some day, gin ye hand at it. But 
things maunna be gotten at the outlay o’ mair than they’re worth. 
Ye’ll ken what I mean. An’ there’s better things nor bein’ a great man, 
efter a’. Forgie the liberty I tak’ in remin’in’ ye o’ sic like. I’m only 
remin’in’ ye o’ what ye ken weel aneuch. But ye’re a brave lad, an’ y’e 
liae been an unco frien’ to me an’ mine; an’ I pray the Lord to thank 
ye for me, for ye hae dune muckle guid to his bairns, — meanin’ me an’ 
mine. It’s verra kin* o’ ye to vrite till’s in the verra moment o’ victory ; 
but weel ye kent that amid a’ yer frien’s — an’ ye canna fail to hae 
mony a ane, wi’ a head an’ a face like yours — there was na ane — na, 
na ane, that wad rejoice mair ower your success than Janet, or my 
doo, Maggie, or yer ain auld obleegd frien’ an’ servant, 

“ David Elginbrod. 

“ P. S. — We’re a’ weel, an* unco blythe at your letter. Maggy — 

“P. S. 2.— Dear Mr. Sutherland, — I wrote all the above at my fa- 
ther’s dictation, and just as he said it, for I thought you would like his 
Scotch better than my English. My mother and I myself are rejoiced 
at the good news. My mother fairly grat outright. I gaed out to the 
tree where I met you first. I wonder sair sometimes if you was the 
angel I was to meet in the fir-wood. I am 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“ Margaret Elginbrod.” 

This letter certainly touched Hugh. But he could not help 
feeling rather offended that David should write to him in such 
a warning tone. He had never addressed him in this fashion 
when he saw him every day. Indeed, David could not very 
easily have spoken to him thus. But writing is a different 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


91 


thing ; and men -who are not much accustomed to use a pen 
often assume a more solemn tone in doing so, as if it were a 
ceremony that required state. As for David, having been a 
little uneasy about Hugh, and not much afraid of offending 
him, — for he did not know his weaknesses very thoroughly, 
and did not take into account the effect of the very falling 
away which he dreaded, in increasing in him pride, and that 
impatience of the gentlest reproof natural to every man, — he 
felt considerably relieved after he had discharged his duty in 
this memento vivere. But one of the results, and a very un- 
expected one, was, that a yet longer period elapsed before 
Hugh wrote again to David. He meant to do so, and meant 
to do so ; but, as often as the thought occurred to him, was 
checked both by consciousness and by pride. So much con- 
tributes, not the evil alone that is in us, but the good also 
sometimes, to hold us back from doing the thing we ought to 
do. 

It now remained for Hugh to look about for some occupa- 
tion. The state of his funds rendered immediate employment 
absolutely necessary ; and as there was only one way in which 
he could earn money without yet further preparation, he must 
betake himself to that way, as he had done before, in the hope 
that it would lead to something better. At all events, it 
would give him time to look about him, and make up his mind 
for the future. Many a one, to whom the occupation of a tu- 
tor is far more irksome than it was to Hugh, is compelled to 
turn his acquirements to this immediate account; and, once 
going in this groove, can never get out of it again. But 
Hugh was hopeful enough to think that his reputation at the 
university would stand him in some stead ; and, however much 
he would have disliked the thought of being a tutor all his 
days, occupying a kind of neutral territory between the posi- 
tion of a gentleman and that of a menial, he had enough of 
strong Saxon good sense to prevent him, despite his Highland 
pride, from seeing any great hardship in laboring still for a 
little while, as he had labored hitherto. But he hoped to 
find a situation more desirable than either of those he had oc- 
cupied before ; and, with this expectation, looked towards the 
South, as most Scotchmen do, indulging the national impulse 
to spoil the Egyptians. Nor did he look long, sending lua 


92 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


tentacles afloat in every direction, before he heard, through 
means of a college friend, of just such a situation as he wanted 
in the family of a gentleman of fortune in the county of Sur- 
rey, not much more than twenty miles from London. This he 
was fortunate enough to obtain without difficulty. 

Margaret was likewise on the eve of a change. She stood 
like a young fledged bird on the edge of the nest, ready to 
take its first long flight. It was necessary that she should do 
something for herself, not so much from the compulsion of 
immediate circumstances, as in prospect of the future. Her 
father was not an old man, but at best he could leave only a 
trifle at his death ; and if J anet outlived him, she would prob- 
ably require all that, and what labor she would then be capa- 
ble of as well, to support herself. Margaret was anxious, too, 
though not to be independent, yet not to be burdensome. 
Both David and Janet saw that, by her peculiar tastes and 
habits, she had separated herself so far from the circle around 
her that she could never hope to be quite comfortable in that 
neighborhood. It was not that by any means she despised or 
refused the labors common to the young women of the country ; 
but, all things considered, they thought that something more 
suitable for her might be procured. 

The laird’s lady continued to behave to her in the most su- 
percilious manner. The very day of Hugh’s departure she had 
chanced to meet Margaret walking alone with a book, this time 
unopened, in her hand. Mrs. Glasford stopped. Margaret 
stopped too, expecting to be addressed. The lady looked at 
her all over, from head to foot, as if critically examining the 
appearance of an animal she thought of purchasing ; then, 
without a word, but with a contemptuous toss of the head, 
passed on, leaving poor Margaret both angry and ashamed. 

But David was much respected by the gentry of tho neigh- 
borhood, with whom his position, as the laird’s steward, brought 
him not unfrequently into contact ; and to several of them he 
mentioned his desire of finding some situation for Margaret. 
Janet could not bear tho idea of her lady-bairn leaving them, 
to encounter the world alone ; but David, though he could 
not help sometimes feeling a similar pang, was able to take to 
himself hearty comfort from the thought, that if there was any 
safety for her in her fathers house, there could not be less in 


DAVID ELG1NBR0D. 


93 


her heavenly Father’s, in any nook of which she was as full 
in his eye, and as near his heart, as in their own cottage. 
He felt that anxiety in this case, as in every other, would just 
be a lack of confidence in God, to suppose which justifiable 
would be equivalent to saying that he had not fixed the foun- 
dations of the earth that it should not be moved ; that he was 
not the Lord of Life, nor the Father of his children; in 
short, that a sparrow could fall to the ground without him, 
and that the hairs of our head are not numbered. Janet 
admitted all this, but sighed nevertheless. So did David too, 
at times ; for he knew that the sparrow must fall ; that many 
a divine truth is hard to learn, all blessed as it is when learned ; 
and that sorrow and suffering must come to Margaret, ere she 
could be fashioned into the perfection of a child of the kingdom. 
Still, she was as safe abroad as at home. 

An elderly lady of fortune was on a visit to one of the fam- 
ilies in the neighborhood. She was in want of a lady’s-maid, 
and it occurred to the house-keeper that Margaret might suit 
her. This was not quite what her parents w T ould have chosen, 
but they allowed her to go and see the lady. Margaret was 
delighted with the benevolent-looking gentlewoman ; and she, 
on her part, was quite charmed with Margaret. It was true 
she knew nothing of the duties of the office ; but the present 
maid, who was leaving on the best of terms, would soon initiate 
her into its mysteries. And David and Janet were 30 much 
pleased with Margaret's account of the interview, chat David 
himself went to see the lady. The sight of him only increased 
her desire to have Margaret, whom she said she would treat 
like a daughter if only she were half as good as she looked. 
Before David left her, the matter was arranged ; and within a 
month Margaret was borne in her mistress’ carriage, away 
from father and mother and cottage home. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


H 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A NEW HOME. 


A wise man’s home is wheresoe’er he’s wise. 

John Marston. — Antonio’s Revengt 

Hugh left the North dead in the arms of gray winter, aid 
found his new abode already alive in the breath of the zest 
wind. As he walked up the avenue to the house he felt that 
the buds were breaking all about, though, the night being 
dark and cloudy, the green shadows of the coming spring were 
invisible. 

He was received at the hall-door, and shown to his room, by 
an old, apparently confidential, and certainly important, but- 
ler; whose importance, however, was inoffensive, as founded, 
to all appearance, on a sense of family and not of personal dig- 
nity. Refreshment was then brought him, with the message 
that, as it was late, Mr. Arnold would defer the pleasure of 
meeting him till the morning at breakfast. 

Left to himself, Hugh began to look around him. Every- 
thing suggested a contrast between his present position and 
that which he had first occupied about the same time of the 
year at Turriepuffit. He was in an old, handsome room of 
dark wainscot, furnished like a library, with bookcases about 
the walls. One of them, with glass doors, had an ancient es- 
critoire underneath, which was open, and evidently left empty 
for his use. A fire was burning cheerfully in an old high 
grate ; but its light, though assisted by that of two wax candles 
on the table, failed to show the outlines of the room, it was so 
large and dark. The ceiling was rather low in proportion, 
and a huge beam crossed it. At one end an open door re- 
vealed a room beyond, likewise lighted with fire and candles. 
Entering, he found this to be an equally old-fashioned bed- 
room, to which his luggage had been already conveyed. 

“ As far as creature comforts go, 55 thought Hugh, “ I have 
fallen on my feet.” He rang the bell, had the tray removed, 
and then proceeded to examine the bookcases. He found 
them to contain much of the literature with which he was most 
desirous of making an acquaintance. A few books of the day 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


95 


were interspersed. The sense of having good companions in 
the authors around him added greatly to his feeling of com- 
fort; and he retired for the night, filled with pleasant antici- 
pations of his sojourn at Arnstead. All the night, however, 
his dreams were of wind and snow, and Margaret out in them 
alone. Janet was waiting in the cottage for him to bring her 
home. He had found her, but could not move her ; for the 
spirit of the storm had frozen her to ice, and she was heavy 
us a marble statue. 

When he awoke, the shadows of buds and budding twigs 
were waving in changeful network-tracery across the bright 
sunshine on his window-curtains. Before he was called he 
was ready to go down ; and to amuse himself till breakfast- 
time, he proceeded to make another survey of the books. He 
concluded that these must be a colony from the mother-library ; 
and also that the room must, notwithstanding, be intended for 
his especial occupation, seeing his bedroom opened out of it. 
Next, he looked from all the windows, to discover into what 
kind of a furrow in the face of the old earth he had fallen. 
All he could see was trees and trees. But oh, how different 
from the sombre, dark, changeless fir-wood at Turriepuffit, 
whose trees looked small and shrunken in his memory, beside 
this glory of boughs, breaking out into their prophecy of 
an infinite greenery at hand ! His rooms seemed to occupy 
the end of a small wing at the back of the house, as well as he 
could judge. His sitting-room windows looked across a small 
space to another wing ; and the windows of his bedroom, which 
were at right-angles to those of the former, looked full into 
what seemed an ordered ancient forest of gracious trees of all 
kinds, coming almost close to the very windows. They were 
the trees which had been throwing their shadows on these win- 
dows for two or three hours of the silent spring sunlight, at 
once so liquid and so dazzling. Then he resolved to test his 
faculty for discovery, by seeing whether he could find his way 
to the breakfast-room without a guide. In this he would have 
succeeded without much difficulty, — for it opened from the main 
entrance hall, to which the huge square-turned oak staircase, 
by which he had ascended, led, — had it not been for the some- 
what intricate nature of the passages leading from the wing in 
which his rooms were (evidently an older and more retired 


96 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


portion of the house) to the main staircase itself. After open- 
ing many doors and finding no thoroughfare, he became con- 
vinced that, in place of finding a way on, he had lost the way 
back. At length he came to a small stair, which led him 
down to a single door. This he opened, and straightway 
found himself in the library, a long, low, silent-looking room, 
every foot of the walls of which was occupied with books in 
varied and rich bindings. The lozenge-paned windows, with 
thick stone mullions, were much overgrown with ivy, throw- 
ing a cool green shadowiness into the room. One of them, 
however, had been altered to a more modern taste, and opened 
with folding-doors upon a few steps, descending into an old- 
fashioned terraced garden. To approach this window he had 
to pass a table, lying on which he saw a paper with verses on 
it, evidently in a woman’s hand, and apparently just written, 
for the ink of the corrective scores still glittered. J ust as he 
reached the window, which stood open, a lady had almost 
gained it from the other side, coming up the steps from the 
garden. She gave a slight start when she saw him, looked away, 
and as instantly glanced towards him again. Then approach- 
ing him through the window, for he had retreated to allow her 
to enter, she bowed with a kind of studied ease, and a slight 
shade of something French in her manner. Her voice was 
very pleasing, almost bewitching ; yet had, at the same time, 
something assumed, if not affected, in the tone. All this was 
discoverable, or rather spiritually palpable, in the two words 
she said, — merely “ Mr. Sutherland?” interrogatively 
Hugh bowed, and said : — 

“ I am very glad you have found me, for I had quite lost 
myself. I doubt whether I should ever have reached the 
breakfast-room.” 

“ Come this way,” she rejoined. 

As they passed the table on which the verses lay, she stopped 
and slipped them into a writing-case. Leading him through 
a succession of handsome, evidently modern passages, she 
brought him across the main hall to the breakfast-room, which 
looked in the opposite direction to the library, namely, to the 
front of the house. She rang the bell ; the urn was brought 
in, and she proceeded at once to make the tea ; which she did 
well, rising in Hugh’s estimation thereby. Before he had time* 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


97 


however, to make his private remarks on her exterior, or his 
conjectures on her position in the family, Mr. Arnold entered 
the room, with a slow, somewhat dignified step, and a dull 
outlook of gray eyes from a gray head well-balanced on a tall, 
rather slender frame. The lady rose, and, addressing him as 
uncle, bade him good-morning ; a greeting which he returned 
cordially, with a kiss on her forehead. Then accosting Hugh, 
with a manner which seemed the more polite and cold after the 
tone in which he had spoken to his niece, he bade him welcome 
to Arnstead. 

“ I trust you were properly attended to last night, Mr. 
Sutherland? Your pupil wanted very much to sit up till you 
arrived ; but he is altogether too delicate, I am sorry to say, 
for late hours, though he has an unfortunate preference for 
them himself. Jacob” (to the man in waiting), “is not 
Master Harry up yet?” 

Master Harry’s entrance at that moment rendered reply un- 
necessary. 

“ Good-morning, Euphra,” he said to the lady, and kissed 
her on the cheek. 

“Good-morning, dear,” was the reply, accompanied by a 
pretence of returning the kiss. But she smiled with a kind 
of confectionery sweetness on him ; and, dropping an additional 
lump of sugar into his tea at the same moment, placed it for 
him beside herself ; while he went and shook hands with his 
father, and then glancing shyly up at Hugh from a pair of 
large dark eyes, put his hand in his, and smiled, revealing 
teeth of a pearly whiteness. The lips, however, did not con- 
trast them sufficiently, being pale and thin, with indication of 
suffering in their tremulous lines. Taking his place at table, 
he trifled with his breakfast ; and after making pretence of eat- 
ing for a while, asked Euphra if he might go. She giving him 
leave, he hastened away. 

Mr. Arnold took advantage of Lis retreat to explain to 
Hugh what he expected of him with regard to the boy. 

“How old would you take Harry to be, Mr. Sutherland?” 

“ I should say about twelve from his size,” replied Hugh; 
“but from his evident bad health, and intelligent expres- 
sion — ” 

“ Ah ! you perceive the state he is in,” interrupted Mr. 

7 


98 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Arnold, with some sadness in his voice. “You are right; he 
is nearly fifteen. He has not grown half an inch in the last 
twelve months . 5 5 

“ Perhaps that is better than growing too fast,” said Hugh. 

“Perhaps — perhaps; we will hope so. But I canno* 
help being uneasy about him. He reads too much, and I have 
not yet been able to help it ; for he seems miserable, and with- 
out any object in life, if I compel him to leave his books.” 

“ Perhaps we can manage to get over that in a little while . 5 5 

“Besides,” Mr. Arnold went on, paying no attention to 
what Hugh said, “I can get him to take no exercise. He 
does not even care for riding. I bought him a second pony a 
month ago, and he has not been twice on its back yet. 5 ’ 

Hugh could not help thinking that to increase the sup- 
ply was not always the best mode of increasing the demand ; 
and that one who would not ride the first pony would hardly 
be likely to ride the second. Mr. Arnold concluded with the 
words : — 

“ I don’t want to stop the boy’s reading, but I can’t have 
him a milksop.” 

“ Will you let me manage him as I please, Mr. Arnold? 55 
Hugh ventured to say. 

Mr. Arnold looked full at him, with a very slight but quite 
manifest expression of surprise ; and Hugh was aware that the 
eyes of the lady, called by the boy Euphra, were likewise fixed 
upon him penetratingly. As if he were then for the first time 
struck by the manly development of Hugh’s frame, Mr. Ar- 
nold answered : — 

“ I don’t want you to overdo it either. You cannot make 
a muscular Christian of him.” (The speaker smiled at his 
own imagined wit.) “The boy has talents, and I want him 
to use them.” 

“ I will do my best for him both ways , 55 answered Hugh, 
“ if you will trust me. For my part, I think the only way is 
to make the operation of the intellectual tendency on the one 
side reveal to the boy himself his deficiency on the other. This 
once done, all will be well.” 

As he said this, Hugh caught sight of a cloudy, inscrutable 
dissatisfaction slightly contracting the eyebrows of the lady. 
Mr. Arnold, however, seemed not to be altogether displeased 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


99 


“ Well,” he answered, “ I have my plans ; but let us see 
first what you can do with yours. If they fail, perhaps you 
will oblige me by trying mine.” 

This was said with the decisive politeness of one who is ac- 
customed to have his own way, and fully intends to have it, 

every word as articulate and deliberate as organs of speech 
could make it. But he seemed at the same time somewhat im- 
pressed by Hugh, and not unwilling to yield. 

Throughout the conversation the lady had said nothing, 
but had sat watching, or rather scrutinizing, Hugh's coun- 
tenance, with a far keener and more frequent glance than, I 
presume, he was at all aware of. Whether or not she was 
satisfied with her conclusions, she allowed no sign to disclose ; 
but, breakfast being over, rose and withdrew, turning, how- 
ever, at the door, and saying : — 

u When you please, Mr. Sutherland, I shall be glad to 
show you what Harry has been doing with me ; for till now I 
have been his only tutor.” 

“ Thank you,” replied Hugh; “but for some time we 
shall be quite independent of school-books. Perhaps we may 
require none at all. He can read, I presume, fairly well ? ” 

“Beading is not only his forte, but his fault,” replied Mr. 
Arnold ; while Euphra, fixing one more piercing look upon 
him, withdrew. 

“ Yes,” responded Hugh ; “ but a boy may shuffle through 
a book very quickly, and have no such accurate perceptions of 
even the mere words as to be able to read aloud intelligibly.” 

How little this applied to Harry, Hugh was soon to learn. 

“Well, you know best about these things, I daresay. I 
leave it to you. With such testimonials as you have, Mr. 
Sutherland, I can hardly be wrong in letting you try your own 
plans with him. How I must bid you good-morning. You 
will, in all probability, find Harry in the library.” 


100 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


HARRY’S NEW HORSE. 


Spielender Untorricht beta* niel.t, dem Kinde Anstrengungen erspmren and 
abnehmen, tondern cine Leidenschaft in ihm erweoken, nelohe ihm die starksten 
aufnothigt and erleichtert. —Jean Paul. — Die Unsichtbare Loge. 


It is not the intention of sportive instruction that the child should be spared 
effort, or delivered from it ; but that thereby a passion should bo wakened in him, 
which shall both necessitate and facilitate the strongest exertion. 


Hugh made no haste to find his pupil in the library ; thinking 
it better, with such a boy, not to pounce upon him as if he 
were going to educate him directly. He went to his own 
rooms instead ; got his books out and arranged them, - 
supplying thus, in a very small degree, the scarcity of 
modern ones in the bookcases ; then arranged his small ward- 
robe, looked about him a little, and finally went to seek his 
pupil. 

He found him in the library, as he had been given to 
expect, coiled up on the floor in a corner, with his back against 
the book-shelves, and an old folio on his knees, which he was 
reading in silence. 

“Well, Harry,” said Hugh, in a half-indifferent tone, as 
he threw himself on a couch, “ what are you reading ? ” 

Harry had not heard him come in. He started, and almost 
shuddered ; then looked up, hesitated, rose, and, as if ashamed 
to utter the name of the book, brought it to Hugh, opening it 
at the title-page as he held it out to him. It was the old 
romance of “ Polexander.” Hugh knew nothing about it ; but, 
glancing over some of the pages, could not help wondering 
that the bey should find it interesting. . 

“ Do you like this very much? ” said he. 

“ Well — no. Yes, rather.” 

“ I think I could find you something more interesting on 

the book-shelves.” , •' 

“Oh! please, sir, mayn ? t I r^id this?” pleaded Harry 
with signs of distress in his pale face. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


101 


“ Oh, yes, certainly, if you wish. But tell me why you 
want to read it so very much.” 

“ Because I have set myself to read it through.” 

Hugh saw that the child was in a diseased state of mind aa 
well as of body. 

“ You should not set yourself to read anything before yoi 
know whether it is worth reading.” 

“ I could not help it. I was forced to say I would.” 

“ To whom? ” 

“ To myself. Mayn’t I read it ? ” 

“ Certainly,” was all Hugh’s answer,* for he saw that he 
must not pursue the subject at present: the boy was quite 
hypochondriacal. His face was keen, with that clear definition 
of feature which suggests superior intellect. He was, though 
very small for his age, well proportioned, except that his head 
and face were too large. His forehead indicated thought ; an*? 
Hugh could not doubt that, however uninteresting the books 
which he read might be, they must have afforded him subjects 
of mental activity. But he could not help seeing as well, that 
this activity, if not altered in its direction and modified in its 
degree, would soon destroy itself, either by ruining his feeble 
constitution altogether, or, which was more to be feared, by 
irremediably injuring the action of the brain. He resolved, 
however, to let him satisfy his conscience by reading the book; 
hoping, by the introduction of other objects of thought and 
feeling, to render it so distasteful that he would be in little 
danger of yielding a similar pledge again, even should the 
temptation return, which Hugh hoped to prevent. 

“ But you have read enough for the present, have you not?” 
said he, rising, and approaching the book-shelves. 

“Yes; I have been reading since breakfast.” 

“ Ah ! there’s a capital book. Have you ever read it, - — 

' Gulliver’s Travels ’ ? ” 

“No. The outside looked always so uninteresting.” 

4 So does 4 Polexander’s 1 outside.” 

“ Yes. But I couldn’t help that one.” 

“ Well, come along. I will read to you.” 

“ Oh, thank you. That will be delightful. But must we 
not go to our lessons? ” 

“ I’m going to make a lesson of this. I have been talking 


102 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


to your papa; and we’re going to begin with a holiday, instead 
of ending with one. I must get better acquainted with you 
first, Harry, before I can teach you right. We must be friends, 
you know.” 

The boy crept close up to him, laid one thin hand on his 
knee, looked in his face for a moment, and then, without a 
word, sat down on the couch close beside him. Befoie an 
hour had passed Harry was laughing heartily at Gulliver’s 
adventures amongst the Liliputians. Having arrived at this 
point of success, Hugh ceased reading, and began to talk to 
him. 

“ Is that lady your cousin? ” 

“ Yes. Isn’t she beautiful ? ” 

“ 1 hardly know yet. I have not got used to her enough 
yet. What is her name ? ” 

“ Oh ! such a pretty name, — Euphrasia.” 

“ Is she the only lady in the house ? ” 

“ Yes ; my mamma is dead, you know. She was ill for a 
long time, they say; and she died when I was born.” 

The tears came in the poor boy’s eyes. Hugh thought of 
his own father, and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry 
laid his head on Hugh’s shoulder. 

“ But,” he went on, “ Euphra is so kind to me ! And she 
is so clever too ! She knows everything.” 

“ Have you no brothers or sisters ? ” 

“ No, none. I wish I had.” 

“Well, I’ll be your big brother. Only you must mind 
what I say to you ; else I shall stop being him. Is it a bar- 
gain ? ” 

“Yes, to be sure ! ” cried Harry, in delight ; and, spring- 
ing from the couch, he began hopping feebly about the room 
on one foot, to express his pleasure. 

“Well, then, that’s settled. Now, you must come and 
show me the horses — your ponies, you know — and the 
pi*,s — ” 

“ I don’t like the pigs ; I don’t know where they are.” 

“ Well, we must find out. Perhaps I shall make some dis- 
< reries for you. Have you any rabbits? ” 

« No.” 

“ A dog though, surely? ” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


103 


“No. I had a canary; but the cat killed it, and I have 
never had a pet since.” 

“ Well, get your cap, and come out with me. I will wait 
for you here.” 

Harry walked away ; lie seldom ran. He soon returned 
with his cap, and they sallied out together. 

Happening to look back at the house, when a few paces 
from it, Hugh thought he saw Euphra standing at the window 
of a back staircase. They made the round of the stables, 
and the cow-house, and the poultry-yard; and even the pigs, 
as proposed, came in for a share of their attention. As they 
approached the sty, Harry turned away his head with a look 
of disgust. They were eating out of the trough. 

“ They make such a nasty noise ! ” he said. 

“ Yes, but just look ; don’t they enjoy it ?” said Hugh. 

Harry looked at them. The notion of their enjoyment 
seemed to dawn upon him as somethimg quite new. He went 
nearer and nearer to the sty. At last a smile broke out over 
his countenance. 

“How tight that one curls his tail!” said he, and burst 
out laughing. 

“ How dreadfully this boy must have been mismanaged l ” 
thought Hugh to himself. “ But there’s no fear of him now, 
I hope.” 

By this time they had been wandering about for more than 
an hour ; and Hugh saw, by Harry’s increased paleness, that 
he was getting tired. 

“Here, Harry, get on my back, my boy, and have a ride. 
You’re tired.” 

And Hugh knelt down. 

Harry shrunk back. 

“ I shall soil your coat with my shoes.” 

“ Nonsense ! Bub them well on the grass there. And 
then get on my back directly.” 

Harry did as he was bid, and found his tutor’s broad back 
and strong arms a very comfortable saddle. So away they 
went, wandering about for a long time, in their new relation 
of horse and his rider. At length they got into the middle 
of a long, narrow avenue, quite neglected, overgrown with 
weeds, and obstructed with rubbish. But the trees were fine 


104 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


beeches, of great growth and considerable age. One end led 
far into a wood, and the other towards the house, a small por- 
tion of which could be seen at the end, the avenue appearing 
to reach close up to it. 

“ Don’t go down this,” said Harry. 

“ Well, it’s not a very good road for a horse certainly, but 
I think I can go it. What a beautiful avenue ! Why is it so 
neglected? ” 

“ Don’t go down there, please, dear horse.” 

Harry was getting wonderfully at home with Hugh already. 

“ Why ? ” asked Hugh. 

“ They call it the Ghost’s Walk, and I don’t much like it. 
It has a strange, distracted look.” 

“That’s along word, and a descriptive one too,” thought 
Hugh ; but, considering that there would come many a better 
opportunity of combating the boy’s fears than now, he simply 
said, “Very well, Harry,” and proceeded to leave the ave- 
nue by the other side. But Harry was not yet satis- 
fied. 

“ Please, Mr. Sutherland, don’t go on that side just now. 
Ride me back, please. It is not safe, they say, to cross her 
path. She always follows any one who crosses her path.” 

Hugh laughed; but again said, “Very well, my boy;” 
and, returning, left the avenue by the side by which he had 
entered it. 

“ Shall we go home to luncheon now ? ” said Harry. 

“ Yes,” replied Hugh. “ Could we not go by the front of 
the house? I should like very much to see it.” 

“Oh, certainly,” said Harry, and proceeded to direct 
Hugh how to go ; but evidently did not know quite to his own 
satisfaction. There being, however, but little foliage yet, 
Hugh could discover his way pretty well. He promised him- 
self many a delightful wander in the woody regions in the 
evenings. 

They managed to get round to the front of the house, not 
without some difficulty ; and then Hugh saw to his surprise 
that, although not imposing in appearance, it was in extent 
more like a baronial residence than that of a simple gentle- 
man. The front was very long, apparently of all ages, and 
of all possible styles of architecture, the result being some- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


105 


what mysterious and eminently picturesque. All kinds of 
windows ; all kinds of projections and recesses ; a house here, 
joined to a hall there ; here a pointed gable, the very bell on 
the top overgrown and apparently choked with ivy ; there a 
wide front with large bay windows ; and next a turret of old 
stone, with not a shred of ivy upon it, but crowded over with 
gray-green lichens, which looked as if the stone itself had tak- 
en to growing ; multitudes of roofs, of all shapes and materials, 
so that one might very easily be lost amongst the chimneys 
and gutters and dormer windows and pinnacles, — made up the 
appearance of the house on the outside to Hugh’s first inquir- 
es sl anc 6> as he passed at a little distance with Harry on his 
back, and scanned the wonderful pile before him. But as he 
looked at tfie house of Arnstead, Euphra was looking at him 
with the boy on his back, from one of the smaller windows. 
Was she making up her mind? 

u \ou are as kind to me as Euphra,” said Harry, as Hugh 
set him down in the hall. u I’ve enjoyed my ride very much, 
thank you, Mr. Sutherland. I am sure Euphra will like you 
very much; she likes everybody.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

EUPHRASIA. 


. . . then purged with Euphrasy and Rue 
The visual nerve, for he had much to see. 

Paradise Lost , b. xi. 

Soft music came to mine ear. It was like the rising breeze, that whirls, at first, 
the thistle’s beard; then flies, dark-shadowy, over the grass. It was the maid of 
Fuarfed wild: she raised the nightly song; for she knew that my soul was a stream 
that flowed at pleasant sounds. — Ossian. — Oina-Morul. 

Harry led Hugh by the hand to the dining-room, a large 
oak hall with Gothic windows, and an open roof supported by 


106 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


richly carved woodwork, in the squares amidst which were 
painted many escutcheons parted by fanciful devices. Over 
the high stone carving above the chimney hung an old piece of 
tapestry, occupying the whole space between that and the roof. 
It represented a hunting-party of ladies and gentlemen, just 
setting out. The table looked very small in the centre of 
the room, though it would have seated twelve or fourteen. It 
was already covered for luncheon ; and in a minute Euphra 
entered and took her place without a word. Hugh sat on one 
side, and Harry on the other. Euphra, having helped both to 
soup, turned to Harry and said, “ Well, Harry, I hope you 
have enjoyed your first lesson.” 

“ Very much,” answered Harry, with a smile. “I have 
learned pigs and horseback.” 

“ The boy is positively clever,”' thought Hugh. 

“ Mr. Sutherland,” he continued, “ has begun to teach 
me to like creatures.” 

11 But I thought you were very fond of your wild-beast 
book, Harry.” 

11 Oh ! yes; but that was only in the book, you know. I 
like the stories about them, of course. But to like pigs, you 
know, is quite different. They are so ugly and ill-bred. I 
like them though.” 

“ You seem to have quite gained Harry already,” said Eu- 
phra, glancing at Hugh, and looking away as quickly. 

“We are very good friends, and shall be, I think,”’ replied 
he. 

Harry looked at him affectionately, and said to him, not to 
Euphra, “ Oh ! yes, that we shall, I am sure.” Then, turn- 
ing to the lady, “Ho you know, Euphra, he is my bi^* 
brother? ” 

“You must mind how you make new relations, though, 
Harry ; for you know that would make him my cousin.” 

“ Well, you will be a kind cousin to him, won’t you ? ” 

“I will try,” replied Euphra, looking up at Hugh with a 
naive expression of shyness, and the slightest possible blush. 

Hugh began to think her pretty, almost handsome. His 
next thought was to wonder how old she was. But about this 
he could not at once make up his mind. She might be four- 
and-twenty ; she might be two-and-thirty. She °had black, 


©AVID ELGINBROD. 


107 


lustreless hair, and eyes to match, as far as color was con- 
cerned; but they could sparkle, and probably flash upon 
occasion; a low forehead, but very finely developed in the 
faculties that dwell. above the eyes ; slender but very dark eye- 
brows, — just black arched lines in her rather sallow complex- 
ion ; nose straight, and nothing remarkable, — “an excellent 
thing in woman;” a mouth indifferent when at rest, but 
capable of a beautiful laugh. She was rather tall, and of a 
pretty enough figure ; hands good ; feet invisible. Hugh 
came to these conclusions rapidly enough, now that his atten- 
tion was directed to her ; for, though naturally unobservant, 
his perception was very acute as soon as his attention was 
roused. 

“ Thank you,” he replied to her pretty speech. “ I shall 
do my best to deserve it.” 

“ I hope you will, Mr. Sutherland,” rejoined she, with an- 
other arch look. “ Take some wine, Harry.” 

She poured out a glass of sherry, and gave it to the boy, 
who drank it with some eagerness. Hugh could not approve 
of this, but thought it too early to interfere. Turning to Har- 
ry, he said : — 

“ Now, Harry, you have had rather a tiring morning. I 
should like you to go and lie down awhile.” 

“Very well, Mr. Sutherland,” replied Harry, who seemed 
rather deficient in combativeness, as well as other boyish vir- 
tues. “ Shall I lie down in the library? ” 

“ No have a change.” 

“ In my bedroom ?” 

“No, I think not. Go to my room, and lie on the couch 
till I come to you.” 

Harry went ; and Hugh, partly for the sake of saying some- 
thing, and partly to justify his treatment of Harry, told Eu- 
pbra, whose surname he did not yet know, what they had been 
about all the morning, ending with some remark on the view 
of the house in front. She heard the account of their pro- 
ceedings with apparent indifference, replying only to the re- 
mark with which he closed it : — 

“ It is rather a large house, is it not, for three — I beg 
your pardon — for four persons to live in, Mr. Sutherland ? ” 

“It is, indeed ; it quite bewilders me.” 


108 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ To tell the truth, I don’t quite know above the half of it 
myself.” 

Hugh thought this rather a strange assertion, large as the 
house was ; but she went on : — 

“ I lost myself between the house-keeper’s room and my 
own, no later than last week.” 

I suppose there was a particle of truth in this ; and that she 
had taken a wrong turning in an abstracted fit. Perhaps she 
did not mean it to be taken as absolutely true. 

“ You have not lived here long, then? ” 

1 £ Not long for such a great place. A few years. I am 
only a poor relation.” 

She accompanied this statement with another swift uplifting 
of the eyelids. But this time her eyes rested for a moment on 
Hugh’s, with something of a pleading expression ; and when 
they fell, a slight sigh followed. Hugh felt that he could not 
quite understand her. A vague suspicion crossed his mind 
that she was bewitching him, but vanished instantly. He 
replied to her communication by a smile, and the remark : — 

“ You have the more freedom then. Did you know Har- 
ry’s mother? ” he added, after a pause. 

“No. She died when Harry was born. She was very 
beautiful, and, they say, very clever, but always in extremely 
delicate health. Between ourselves, I doubt if there was 
much sympathy, — that is, if my uncle and she quite under- 
stood each other. But that is an old story.” 

A pause followed. Euphra resumed : — 

“As to the freedom you speak of, Mr. Sutherland, I do 
not quite know what to do with it. I live here as if the place 
were my own, and give what orders I please. But Mr. Ar- 
nold shows me little attention, — he is so occupied with one 
thing and another, I hardly know what ; and if he did, per- 
haps I should get tired of him. So, except when we have vis- 
itors, which is not very often, the time hangs rather heailvy 
on my hands.” 

“But you are fond of reading — and writing too, I 
suspect,” Hugh ventured to say. 

She gave him another of her glances, in which the apparent 
shyness was mingled with something for which Hugh could 
not find a name. Nor did he suspect, till long after, that it 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


109 


was in reality slyness, so tempered with archness, that, if dis- 
covered, it might easily pass for an expression playfully 
assumed. 

u Oh, yes,” she said; u one must read a book now and then; 
and if a verse” — again a glance and a slight blush — u should 
come up from nobody knows where, one may as well write it 
down. But, please, do not take me for a literary lady. In- 
deed, I make not the slightest pretensions. I don’t know 
what I should do without Harry ; and indeed, indeed, you 
must not steal him from me, Mr. Sutherland.” 

“ I should be very sorry,” replied Hugh. “ Let me beg 
you, as far as I have a right to do so, to join us as often and 
as long as you please. I will go and see how he is. I am 
sure the boy only wants thorough r( using, alternated with 
perfect repose.” 

He went to his own room, where ho found Harry, to his 
satisfaction, fast asleep on the sofa. He took care not to 
wake him, but sat down beside him to read till his sleep should 
be over. But, a moment after, the boy opened his eyes with 
a start and a shiver, and gave a slight cry. When he saw 
Hugh, he jumped up, and with a smile which was pitiful ta 
see upon a scared face, said : — 

“ Oh ! I am so glad you are there.” 

“ What is the matter, dear Harry?” 

“ 1 had a dreadful dream.” 

“ What was it? ” 

“ 1 don’t know. It always comes. It is always the same. 
I know that. And yet I can never remember what it is.” 

Hugh soothed him as well as he could ; and he needed it, 
for the cold drops were standing on his forehead. When he 
had grown calmer, he went and fetched “ Gulliver,” and, to the 
boy’s great delight, read to him till dinner-time. Before the 
first bell rang he had quite recovered, and indeed seemed 
rather interested in the approach of dinner. 

Dinner was an affair of some state at Arnstead. Almost 
immediately after the second bell had rung, Mr. Arnold made 
his appearance in the drawing-room, where the others were 
already waiting for him. This room had nothing of the dis- 
tinctive character of the parts of the house which Hugh had 
already seen. It was merely a handsome modern room, of no 


110 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


great size. Mr. Arnold led Euphra to dinner, and Hugh 
followed with Harry. 

Mr. Arnold’s manner to Hugh was the same as in the 
morning, — studiously polite, without the smallest approach to 
cordiality. He addressed him as an equal, it is true ; but an 
equal who could never be in the smallest danger of thinking 
he meant it. Hugh, who, without having seen a great deal of 
the world, yet felt much the same wherever he was, took care 
to give him all that he seemed to look for, as far at least as 
was consistent with his own self-respect. He soon discovered 
that he was one of those men, who, if you will only grant their 
position, and acknowledge their authority, will allow you to 
have much your own way in everything. His servants had 
found this out long ago, and almost everything about the house 
was managed as they pleased ; but as the oldest of them were 
respectable family servants, nothing went very far wrong. 
They all, however, waited on Euphra with an assiduity that 
showed she was, or could be, quite mistress when and where 
she pleased. Perhaps they had found out that she had great 
influence with Mr. Arnold ; and certainly he seemed very fond 
of her indeed, after a stately fashion. She spoke to the serv- 
ants with peculiar gentleness ; never said, If you please ; but 
always, Thank you. Harry never asked for anything, but 
always looked to Euphra, who gave the necessary order. 
Hugh saw that the boy was quite dependent upon her, seeming 
of himself scarcely capable of originating the simplest action. 
Mr. Arnold, however, dull as he was, could not help seeing 
that Harry’s manner was livelier than usual, and seemed 
pleased at the slight change already visible for the better. 
Turning to Hugh, he said : — 

“Do you find Harry very much behind with his studies, 
Mr. Sutherland ? ” 

“ I have not yet attempted to find out,” replied Hugh. 

“ Not ? ” said Mr. Arnold, with surprise. 

“No. If he be behind, I feel confident it will not be for 
long.” 

“ But,” began Mr. Arnold, pompously ; and then he 
paused. 

“You were kind enough to say, Mr. Arnold, that I might 
tiy my own plans with him first. I have been doing so.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Ill 


‘ ‘ Yes — certainly. But — ” 

Here Harry broke in with some animation : — 

“Mr. Sutherland has been my horse, carrying me about on 
his back all the morning, — no, not all the morning; but an 
hour, or an hour and a half, or was it two hours, Mr. 
Sutherland? ” 

“ I really don’t know, Harry,” answered Hugh. “ I don’t 
think it matters much.” 

Harry seemed relieved, and went on : — 

“He has been reading ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ tome — oh, 
such fun ! And we have been to see the cows and the pigs ; 
and Mr. Sutherland has been teaching me to jump. Do you 
know, papa, he jumped right over the pony’s back without 
touching it.” 

Mr. Arnold stared at the boy with lustreless eyes and 
hanging cheeks. These grew red as if he were going to choke. 
Such behavior was quite inconsistent with the dignity of 
Arnstead and its tutor, who had been recommended to him as a 
thorough gentleman. But for the present he said nothing; 
probably because he could think of nothing to say. 

“ Certainly Harry seems better already,” interposed Euphra. 
“ I cannot help thinking Mr. Sutherland has made a good be- 
ginning.” 

Mr. Arnold did not reply, but the cloud wore away from his 
face by degrees ; and at length he asked Hugh to take a glass 
of wine with him. 

When Euphra rose from the table, and Plarry followed her 
example, Hugh thought it better to rise as well. Mr. Arnold 
seemed to hesitate whether or not to ask him to resume his seat 
and have a glass of claret. Had he been a little wizened peda- 
gogue, no doubt he would have insisted on his company, sure 
of acquiescence from him in every sentiment he might happen 
to utter. But Hugh really looked so very much like a gentle- 
man, and stated his own views, or adopted his own plans, with 
so much independence, that Mr. Arnold judged it safer to keep 
him at arm’s length for a season at least, till he should thor- 
oughly understand his position, — not that of a guest, but that 
of his son’s tutor, belonging to the household of Arnstead only 
on approval. 

On leaving the dining-room, Hugh hesitated, in hi3 turn. 


112 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


whether to betake himself to his own room, or to accompany 
Euphra to the drawing-room, the door of which stocd open on 
the opposite side of the hall, revealing a brightness and warmth, 
which the chill of the evening and the lowness of the fire in 
the dining-room rendered quite enticing. But Euphra, who 
was half across the hall, seeming to divine his thoughts, turned, 
and said, “ Are you not going to favor us with your company, 
Mr. Sutherland ? ” 

“ With pleasure,” replied Hugh; but, to cover his hesita- 
tion, added, “ I will be with you presently ; ” and ran upstairs 
to his own room. “The old gentleman sits on his dignity; 
can hardly be said to stand on it,” thought he, as he went. 
“ The poor relation, as she calls herself, treats me like a guest. 
She is mistress here however; that is clear enough . 99 

As he descended the stairs to the drawing-room a voice rose 
through the house, like the voice of an angel. At least so 
thought Hugh, hearing it for the first time. It seemed to 
take his breath away, as he stood for a moment on the stairs, 
listening. It was only Euphra singing, “ The Flowers of the 
Forest.” The drawing-room door was still open, and her voice 
rang through the wide, lofty hall. He entered almost on 
tiptoe, that he might lose no thread of the fine tones. Had 
she chosen the song of Scotland out of compliment to him ? She 
saw him enter, but went on without hesitating even. In the 
high notes, her voice had that peculiar vibratory richness which 
belongs to the nightingale’s ; but he could not help thinking 
that the low tones were deficient both in quality and volume. 
The expression and execution, however, would have made up 
for a thousand defects. Her very soul seemed brooding over 
the dead upon Flodden field, as she sang this most wailful of 
melodies — this embodiment of a nation’s grief. The song 
died away as if the last breath had gone with it ; failing as it 
failed, and ceasing with its inspiration, as if the voice that sang 
lived only for and in the song. A moment of intense silence 
followed. Then, before Hugh had half recovered from the for- 
mer, with an almost grand dramatic recoil, as if the second 
sprang out of the first, like an eagle of might out of an ocean 
of weeping, she burst into “ Scots whahae.” She might have 
been a new Deborah, heralding her nation to battle. Hugh 
was transfixed, turned icy-cold, with the excitement of his 


DAVID ELGINBROB. 


in 


favorite song so sung. Was that a glance of satisfied triumph 
with which Euphra looked at him for a single moment ? She 
sang the rest of the song as if the battle were already gained ; 
but looked no more at Hugh. 

The excellence of her tones, and the lambent fluidity of her 
transitions, if I may be allowed the phrase, were made by her 
art quite subservient to the expression, and owed their chief 
value to the share they bore in producing it. Possibly there 
was a little too much of the dramatic in her singing, but it was 
all in good taste ; and, in a word, Hugh had never heard such 
singing before. As soon as she had finished, she rose, and shut 
the piano. 

“Do not, do not,” faltered Hugh, seeking to arrest her 
hand, as she closed the instrument. 

“ I can sing nothing after that,” she said with emotion, or 
perhaps excitement ; for the trembling of her voice might be 
attributed to either cause. “Do not ask me.” 

Hugh respectfully desisted ; but after a few minutes’ pause 
ventured to remark : — 

“ I cannot understand how you should be able to sing Scotch 
songs so well. I never heard any but Scotch women sing 
them, even endurably, before ; your singing of them is per- 
fect.” 

“It seems to me,” said Euphra, speaking as if she would 
rather have remained silent, “ that a true musical penetration 
is independent of styles and nationalities. It can perceive, or 
rather feel, and reproduce, at the same moment. If the music 
speaks Scotch, the musical nature hears Scotch. It can take 
any shape, indeed cannot help taking any shape, presented to 
it.” 

Hugh was yet further astonished by this criticism from one 
whom he had been criticising with so much carelessness that 
very day. 

“You think, then,” said he, modestly, not as if he would 
bring her to book, but as really seeking to learn from her, 
“ that a true musical nature can pour itself into the mould of 
any song, in entire independence of association and educa- 
tion ? ” 

“ Yes ; in independence of any but what it may provide for 
itself.” 


8 


114 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Euphrasia, however, had left one important element un- 
represented in the construction of her theory , namely , the 
degree of capability which a mind may possess of sympathy 
with any given class of feelings. The blossom of the mind, 
whether it flower in poetry, music, or any other art, must be 
the exponent of the nature and condition of that whose blossom 
it is. No mind, therefore, incapable of sympathizing with the 
feelings whence it springs, can interpret the music of another. 
And Euphra herself was rather a remarkable instance of this 
forgotten fact. 

Further conversation on the subject was interrupted by the 
entrance of Mr. Arnold, who looked rather annoyed at finding 
Hugh in the drawing-room, and ordered Harry off to bed, 
with some little asperity of tone. The boy rose at once, rang 
the bell, bade them all good-night, and went. A servant met 
him at the door with a candle, and accompanied him. 

Thought Hugh : “ Here are several things to be righted at 
once. The boy must not have wine, and he must have only 
one dinner a day ; especially if he is ordered to bed so early. 
I must make a man of him if I can.” 

He made inquiries, and, with some difficulty, found out 
where the boy slept. During the night he was several times 
in Harry’s room, and once in happy time to wake him from a 
nightmare dream. The boy was so overcome with terror, 
that Hugh got into bed beside him, and comforted him to sleep 
in his arms. Nor did he leave him till it was time to get up, 
when he stole back to his own quarters, which, happily, were 
at no very great distance. 

I may mention here, that it was not long before Hugh suc- 
ceeded in stopping the wine, and reducing the dinner to a 
mouthful of supper. Harry, as far as he was concerned, 
yielded at once ; and his father only held out long enough to 
satisfy his own sense of dignity. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


1 15 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE CAVE IN THE STRAW. 

All knowledge and wonder (which is the seed of knowledge) is an impressiou of 
pleasure in itself. — Lord Bacon. — Advancement of Learning. 

The following morning dawned in a cloud ; which, swathed 
about the trees, wetted them down to the roots, without having 
time to become rain. They drank it in like sorrow, the only 
material out of which true joy can be fashioned. This cloud 
of mist would yet glimmer in a new heaven, namely, in the 
cloud of blooms which would clothe the limes and the chestnuts 
and the beeches along the ghost’s walk. But there was gloomy 
weather within doors as well ; for poor Harry was especially 
sensitive to variations of the barometer, without being in the 
least aware of the fact himself. Again Hugh found him in 
the library, seated in his usual corner, with “ Polexander ” on 
his knees. He half dropped the book when Hugh entered, 
and murmured with a sigh : — 

“ It’s no use ; I can't read it.” 

“ What’s the matter, Harry? ” said his tutor. 

“ I should like to tell you ; but you will laugh at me.' 

“ I shall never laugh at you, Harry.” 

“ Never? ” 

“ No, never.” 

“ Then tell me how I can be sure that I have read this 
book.” 

u I do not quite understand you.” 

u Ah ! I was sure nobody could be so stupid as I am. Do 
you know, Mr. Sutherland, I seem to have read a page from 
top to bottom sometimes, and when I come to the bottom 1 
know nothing about it, and doubt whether I have read it at all ; 
and then I stare at it all over again, till I grow so queer, and 
sometimes nearly scream. You see I must be able to say I 
have read the book.” 

“ Why ? Nobody will ever ask you.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but you know that is nothing. I want to 
know that I have read the book ; really and truly read it.” 

Hugh thought for a moment, and seemed to see that the 


116 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


boy, not being strong enough to be a law to himself, ju&t needed 
a benign law from without, to lift him from the chaos of fee- 
ble and conflicting notions and impulses within, which gener- 
ated a false law of slavery. So he said : — 

“Harry, am I your big brother ? ” 

“Yes, Mr. Sutherland.” 

“Then ought you to do what I wish, or what you wish 
yourself? ” 

“ What you wish, sir.” 

“ Then I want you to put away that book for a month at 
least.” 

“ 0 Mr. Sutherland ! I promised.” 

“ To whom? ” 

“To myself.” 

“ But I am above you ; and I want you to do as I tell you. 
Will you, Harry ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Put away the book, then.” 

Harry sprang to his feet, put the book on its shelf, and, 
going up to Hugh, said : — 

“You have done it, not me.” 

“ Certainly, Harry.” 

The notions of a hypochondriacal child will hardly be in- 
teresting to the greater part of my readers ; but Hugh learned 
from this a little lesson about divine law which he never for- 

^ “ Now, Harry,” added he, “you must not open a book till 

I allow you.” _ ,. £ 

“No poetry either?” said poor Harry; and his face 

fell. T ^ 

“ I don’t mind poetry so much ; but of prose I will read as 
much to you as will be good for you. Come, let us have a 
bit of c Gulliver ’ again.” 

“ Oh, how delightful ! ” cried Harry. “ I am so glad you 
made me put away that tiresome book. I wonder why it in- 
sisted so on being read.” 

Hugh read for an hour, and then made Harry put on his 
cloak, "notwithstanding the rain, which fell in a slow, thought- 
ful spring-shower. Taking the boy again on his back, ho 
carried him into the woods. There he told him how the drops 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


117 


t»f wet sank into the ground, and then wenV running about 
through it in every direction, looking for seeds ; which were all 
thirsty little things, that wanted to grow, and could not, till a 
drop came and gave them drink. And he told him how the 
rain-drops were made up in the skies, and then came down, 
like millions of angels, to do what they were told in the dark 
earth. The good drops went into all the cellars and dungeons 
of the earth, to let out the imprisoned flowers. And he told 
him how the seeds, when they had drunk the rain-drops, 
wanted another kind of drink next, which was much thinner 
and much stronger, but could not do them any good till they 
had drunk the rain first. 

u What is that?” said Harry. “I feel as if you were 
reading out of the Bible, Mr. Sutherland.” 

“It is the sunlight,” answered his tutor. “When a seed 
has drunk of the water, and is not thirsty any more, it wants 
to breathe next ; and then the sun sends a long, small finger 
of fire down into the grave where the seed is lying, and it 
touches the seed, and something inside the seed begins to move 
instantly and to grow bigger and bigger till it sends up two 
green blades out of it into the earth, and through the earth 
into the air ; and then it can breathe. And then it sends root3 
down into the earth ; and the roots keep drinking water, and 
the leaves keep breathing the air, and the sun keeps them alive 
and busy ; and so a great tree grows up, and God looks at it, 
and says it is good.” 

“ Then they really are living things? ” said Harry. 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Sutherland. I don’t think I shall dislike 
rain so much any more.” 

Hugh took him next into the barn, where they found a great 
heap of straw. Recalling his own boyish amusements, he made 
him put off his cloak, and help to make a tunnel into this heap. 
Harry was delighted, — the straw was so nice, and bright, and 
dry, and clean. They drew it out by handfuls, and thus ex- 
cavated a round tunnel to the distance of six feet or so, when 
Hugh proceeded to more extended operations. Before it was 
time to go to lunch, they had cleared half of a hollow sphere, 
six feet in diameter, out of the heart of the heap. 

After lunch, for which Harry had been very unwilling to 


118 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


relinquish the straw hut, Hugh sent him to lie down for a 
while ; when he fell fast asleep as before. After he had left 
the room, Euphra said : — 

“ How do you get on with Harry, Mr Sutherland? ” 

11 Perfectly to my satisfaction, ” answered Hugh. 

“ Do you not find him very slow ? ” 

“ Quite the contrary.” 

“You surprise me. But you have not given him any 
lessons yet.” 

u I have given him a great many, and he is learning them 
very fast.” 

“ I fear he will have forgotten all my poor labors before you 
take up the work where we left it. When will you give him 
any book-lessons? ” 

“ Not for a while yet.” 

Euphra did not reply. Her silence seemed intended to ex- 
press dissatisfaction ; at least so Hugh interpreted it. 

“I hope you do not think it is to indulge myself that I 
manage Master Harry in this peculiar fashion,” he said. 
“ The fact is, he is a very peculiar child, and may turn out a 
genius or a weakling, just as he is managed. At least, so it 
appears to me at present. May I ask where you left the work 
you were doing with him ? ” 

“ He was going through the Eton grammar for the third 
time,” answered Euphra, with a defiant glance, almost of dis- 
like, at Hugh. “ But I need not enumerate his studies, for I 
dare say you will not take them up at all after my fashion. I 
only assure you I have been a very exact disciplinarian. 
What he knows, I think you will find he knows thoroughly.” 

So saying, Euphra rose, and, with a flush on her cheek, 
walked out of the room in a more stately manner than usual. 

Hugh felt that he had, somehow or other, offended her. 
But, to tell the truth, he did not much care, for her manner 
had rather irritated him. He retired to his own room, wrote 
to his mother, and, when Harry awoke, carried him again to 
the barn for an hour’s work in the straw. Before it grew 
dusk, they had finished a little, silent, dark chamber, as 
round as they could make it, in the heart of the straw. All 
the excavated material they had thrown on the top, reserving 
only a little to close up tlw entrance when they pleased. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


119 


The next morning was still rainy; and when Hugh found 
Harry in the library as usual, he saw that the clouds had 
again gathered over the hoy’s spirit. He was pacing about 
the room in a very odd manner. The carpet was divided 
diamond-wise in a regular pattern. Harry’s steps were, for 
the most part, planted upon every third diamond, as he slowly 
crossed the floor in a variety of directions ; for, as on previous 
occasions, he had not perceived the entrance of his tutor. 
But, every now and then, the boy would make the most sud- 
den and irregular change in his mode of progression, setting 
his foot on the most unexpected diamond, at one time the 
nearest to him, at another the farthest within his reach. 
When he looked up, and saw his tutor watching him, he 
neither started nor blushed ; but, still retaining on his coun- 
tenance the perplexed, anxious expression which Hugh had 
remarked, said to him : — 

“ How can God know on which of those diamonds I am 
going to set my foot next?” 

“ If you could understand how God knows, Harry, then you 
would know yourself ; but before you have made up your 
mind, you don’t know which you will choose; and even then 
you only know on which you intend to set your foot, for you 
have often changed your mind after making it up.” 

Harry looked as puzzled as before. 

“ Why, Harry, to understand how God understands, you 
would need to be as wise as he is; so it is no use trying. 
You see you can’t quite understand me, though I have a real 
meaning in what I say.” 

“ Ah ! 1 see it is no use; but I can’t bear to be puzzled.” 

il But you need not be puzzled ; you have no business to be 
puzzled. You are trying to get into your little brain what is 
far too grand and beautiful to get into it. Would you not 
think it very stupid to puzzle yourself how to put a hundred 
horses into a stable with twelve stalls? ” 

Harry laughed, and looked relieved. 

“It is more unreasonable a thousand times to try to under- 
stand such things. For my part, it would make me miserable 
to think that there was nothing but what I could understand. I 
should feel as if I had no room anywhere. Shall we go to 
our cave again ? ” 


120 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


u Oh ! yes, please,” cried Harry ; and in a moment he was 
on Hugh’s back once more, cantering joyously to the barn. 

After various improvements, including some enlargement of 
the interior, Hugh and Harry sat down together in the low 
yellow twilight of their cave, to enjoy the result of the?r 
labors. They could just see, by the light from the tunnel, the 
glimmer of the golden hollow all about them. The rain was 
falling heavily out-of-doors ; and they could hear the sound of 
the multitudinous drops of the broken cataract of the heavens 
like the murmur of the insects in a summer wood. They 
knew that everything outside was rained upon, and was again 
raining on everything beneath it, while they were dry and 
warm. 

il This is nice ! ” exclaimed Harry, after a few moments of 
silent enjoyment. 

“ This is your first lesson in architecture,” said Hugh. 

“Am I to learn architecture?” asked Harry, in a rueful 
tone. 

“ It is well to know how things came to be done, if you 
should know nothing more about them, Harry. Men lived in 
the cellars first of all, and next on the ground floor ; but they 
could get no further till they joined the two, and then they 
could build higher.” 

“I don’t quite understand you, sir.” 

“ 1 did not mean you should, Harry.” 

“ Then I don’t mind, sir. But I thought architecture was 
building.” 

“ So it is ; and this is one way of building. It is only 
making an outside by pulling out an inside, instead of making 
an inside by setting up an outside.” 

Harry thought for a while, and then said, joyfully : — 

“I see it, sir! I see it. The inside is the chief thing — 
not the outside.” 

“ Yes, Harry; and not in architecture only. Never forget 
that.” 

They lay for some time in silence, listening to the rain. 
At length Harry spoke : — 

“ I have been thinking of what you told me yesterday, Mr. 
Sutherland, about the rain going to look for the seeds that 
were thirsty for it- And now I feel just as if I were a seed, 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


121 


tying in its little hole in the earth, and hearing the rain-drops 
pattering down all about it, waiting — oh, so thirsty ! — foi 
some kind drop to find me out, and give me itself to drink. 1 
wonder what kind of flower I should grow up,” added he, 
laughing. 

“ There is more truth than you think, in your pretty fancy, 
Harry,” rejoined Hugh, and was silent — self-rebuked; for the 
memory of David came back upon him, recalled by the words 
of the boy ; of David, whom he loved and honored with the 
best powers of his nature, and whom yet he had neglected and 
seemed to forget; nay, whom he had partially forgotten, he 
could not deny. The old man, whose thoughts were just those 
of a wise child, had said to him once : — 

“ We ken no more, Maister Sutherland what we’re growin’ 
till, than that neep-seed there kens what a neep is, though a 
neep it will be. The only odds is, that we ken that we dinna 
ken, and the neep-seed kens nothing at all aboot it. But ae 
thing, Maister Sutherland we may be sure o’ : that whatever 
it be, it will be worth God’s makin’ an’ our growin’.” 

A solemn stillness fell upon Hugh’s spirit, as he recalled 
these words ; out of which stillness, I presume, grew the little 
parable which follows ; though Hugh, after he had learned far 
more about the things therein hinted at, could never under- 
stand how it was, that he could have put so much more into it, 
than he seemed to have understood at that period of his 
history. 

For Harry said : — 

“ Wouldn’t this be a nice place for a story, Mr. Sutherland? 
Do you ever tell stories, sir ? ” 

“ I was just thinking of one, Harry ; but it is as much 
yours as mine, for you sowed the seed of the story in my 
mind.” 

“ Do you mean a story that never was in a book, — a story 
out of your own head? Oh, that will be grand! ” 

“Wait till we see what it will be, Harry; for I can’t tell 
yet how it will turn out.” 

After a little further pause, Hugh began : — 

“Long, long ago, two seeds lay beside each other in the 
earth, waiting. It was cold, and rather wearisome; and, to 
beguile the time, the one found means to speak to the other. 


122 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ ‘What are you going to be? ’ said the one. 

“ ‘ I don't know,’ answered the other. 

“‘For me,’ rejoined the first, ‘I mean to be a rose. 
There is nothing like a splendid rose. Everybody will love 
me then ! ’ 

“ ‘ It’s all right/ whispered the second; and that was all he 
could say ; for somehow when he had said that, he felt as if all 
the words in the world were used up. So they were silent 
again for a day or two. 

‘ “ Oh, dear ! 9 cried the first, ‘I have had some water. 
I never knew till it was inside me. I’m growing ! I’m grow- 
ing ! Good-by ! 9 

“ ‘ Good-by ! ’ repeated the other, and lay still ; and waited 
more than ever. 

“ The first grew and grew, pushing itself straight up, till at 
last it felt that it was in the open air, for it could breathe. And 
what a delicious breath that was ! It was rather cold, but so 
refreshing. The flower could see nothing, for it was not quite 
a flower yet, only a plant ; and they never see till their eyes 
come, that is, till they open their blossoms, — then they are 
flowers quite. So it grew and grew, and kept its head up very 
steadily, meaning to see the sky the first thing, and leave the 
earth quite behind as well as beneath it. But somehow or 
other, though why it could not tell, it felt very much inclined 
to cry. At length it opened its eye. It was morning, and the 
sky teas over its head ; but, alas ! itself was no rose, — only 
a tiny white flower. It felt yet more inclined to hang down 
its head and to cry; but it still resisted, and tried hard to 
open its eye wide, and to hold its head upright, and to look full 
at the sky. 

“ * I will be a star of Bethlehem at least ! 9 said the flower 
to itself. 

“ But its head felt very heavy ; and a cold wind rushed 
over it, and bowed it down towards the earth. And the flower 
saw that the time of the singing of birds was not come, that 
the snow covered the whole land, and that there was not a sin- 
gle flower in sight but itself. And it half-closed its leaves in 
terror and the dismay of loneliness. But that instant it re- 
membered what the other flower used to say ; and it said to 
if self, ‘ It’s all right ; I will be what I can.’ And thereon 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


23 


it yielded to the wind, drooped its head to the earth, and looked 
no more on the sky, hut on the snow. And straightway the 
wind stopped, and the cold died away, and the snow sparkled 
like pearls and diamonds : and the flower knew that it was the 
holding of its head up that had hurt it so ; for that its body 
came of the snow, and that its name was Snow-drop. And 
so it said once more, 1 It’s all right ! ’ and waited in perfect 
peace. All the rest it needed was to hang its head after its 
nature.” 

“ And what became of the other ? ” asked Harry. 

“ I haven’t done with this one yet,” answered Hugh. “ 1 
only told you it was waiting. One day a pale, sad-looking 
girl, with thin face, large eyes, and long white hands, came, 
hanging her head like the snow-drop, along the snow where the 
flower grew. She spied it, smiled joyously, and saying, ‘ Ah ! 
my little sister, are you come ? ’ stooped and plucked the snow- 
drop. It trembled and died in her hand; which was a heav- 
enly death for a snow-drop ; for had it not cast a gleam of 
summer, pale as it had been itself, upon the heart of a sick 
girl?” 

“ And the other ? ” repeated Harry. 

“ The other had a long time to wait ; hut it did grow one 
of the loveliest roses ever seen. And at last it had the highest 
honor ever granted to a flower : two lovers smelled it together, 
and were content with it.” 

Harry was silent, and so was Hugh ; for he could not under- 
stand himself quite. He felt all the time he was speaking, as 
if he were listening to David, instead of talking himself. The 
fact was, he was only expanding, in an imaginative soil, the 
living seed which David had cast into it. There seemed to 
himself to be more in his parable than he had any right to in- 
vent. But is it not so with all stories that are rightly rooted 
in the human ? 

“What a delightful story, Mr. Sutherland! ” said Harry, 
at last. “Euphra tells me stories sometimes; but I don't 
think I ever heard one I liked so much. I wish we were 
meant to grow into something, like the flower-seeds.” 

“ So we are, Harry.” 

“ Are we indeed ? How delightful it would be to think that 


124 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


I am only a seed, Mr. Sutherland ! Do you think I might 
think so? ” 

“ Yes, I do.” 

“ Then, please, let me begin to learn something directly. I 
haven’t had anything disagreeable to do since you came ; and 
I don’t feel as if that was right.” 

Poor Harry, like so many thousands of good people, had 
not yet learned that God is not a hard taskmaster. 

“ I don’t intend that you should have anything disagreeable 
to do, if I can help it. We must do such things when they 
come to us ; but we must not make them for ourselves, or for 
each other.” 

“Then I’m not to learn any more Latin, am I?” said 
Harry, in a doubtful kind of tone, as if there were after all a 
little pleasure in doing what he did not like. 

“ Is Latin so disagreeable, Harry? ” 

“ Yes ; it is rule after rule, that has nothing in it I care 
for. How can anybody care for Latin ? But I am quite 
ready to begin, if I am only a seed — really, you know.” 

“ Not yet, Harry. Indeed, we shall not begin again — I 
won’t let you — till you ask me with your whole heart, to let 
you learn Latin.” 

“I’m afraid that will be a long time, and Euphra will not 
like it.” 

“ I will talk to her about it. But perhaps it will not be so 
long as you think. Now, don’t mention Latin to me again, 
till you are ready to ask me heartily to teach you. And don’t 
give yourself any trouble about it either. You never can 
make yourself like anything.” 

Harry was silent. They returned to the house, through the 
pouring rain ; Harry, as usual, mounted on his big brother. 

As they crossed the hall, Mr. Arnold came in. He looked 
surprised and annoyed. Hugh set Harry down, who ran up- 
stairs to get dressed for dinner ; while he himself half-stopped, 
and turned towards Mr. Arnold. But Mr. Arnold did not 
6peak, and so Hugh followed Harry. 

Hugh spent all that evening, after Harry had gone to bed, 
in correcting his impressions of some of the chief stories of 
early Homan history ; of which stories he intended commencing 
a little course to Harry the next day. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


125 


Meantime there was very little intercourse between Hugh 
and Euphra, whose surname, somehow or othei, Hugh had 
never inquired after. He disliked asking questions about 
people to an uncommon degree, and so preferred waiting for a 
natural revelation. Her later behavior had repelled him, im- 
pressing him with the notion that she was proud, and that she 
had made up her mind, notwithstanding her apparent frank- 
ness at first, to keep him at a distance. That she was fitful, 
too, and incapable of showing much tenderness even to pool 
Harry, he had already concluded in his private judgment-hall. 
Nor could he doubt that, whether from wrong theories, inca- 
pacity, or culpable indifference, she must have taken very bad 
measures indeed with her young pupil. 

The next day resembled the two former ; with this differ- 
ence, that the rain fell in torrents. Seated in their strawy 
bower, they cared for no rain. They were safe from the 
whole world, and all the tempers of nature. 

Then Hugh told Harry about the slow beginnings and the 
mighty birth of the great Roman people. He told him tales 
of their battles and conquests ; their strifes at home, and their 
wars abroad. He told him stories of their grand men, great 
with the individuality of their nation and their own. He 
told him their characters, their peculiar opinions and grounds 
of action, and the results of their various schemes for their 
various ends. He told him about their love to their country, 
about their poetry and their religion ; their courage and theii 
hardihood; their architecture, their clothes, and their armor; 
their customs and their laws ; but all in such language, 
or mostly in such language, as one boy might use in 
telling another of the same age ; for Hugh possessed the gift 
of a general simplicity of thought, — one of the most valuable a 
man can have. It cost him a good deal of labor (well-repaid 
in itself, not to speak of the evident delight of Harry) to 
make himself perfectly competent for this ; but he had a good 
foundation of knowledge to work upon. 

This went on for a long time after the period to which I am 
now more immediately confined. Every time they stopped to 
rest from their rambles or games, — as often, in fact, as they 
sat down alone, — Harry’s constant request was : — 


126 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ Now, Mr. Sutherland, mightn’t we have something more 
about the Romans? ” 

And Mr. Sutherland gave him something more. But all 
this time he never uttered the word — Latin . 


CHAPTER XX. 

LARCH AND OTHER HUNTING. 


For there is neither buske nor hay 
In May, that it n’ill shrouded bene. 

And it with newe leaves wrene; 

These woodes eke recoveren grene, 

That drie in winter ben to sene, 

And the erth waxeth proud withall, 

For swote dewes that on it fall, 

And the poore estate forget, 

In which that winter had it set: 

And then becomes the ground so proude, 

That it wol bave a newe shroude, 

And maketh so queint his robe and faire. 

That it hath hewes an hundred paire, 

Of grasse and floures, of Ind and Pers, 

And many hewes full divers: 

That is the robe I mean, ywis, 

Through which the ground to praison is. 

Chaucer’s translation of the Romaunt of the Rot*, 


So passed the three days of rain. After breakfast the fol- 
lowing morning, Hugh went to find Harry, according to cus- 
tom, in the library. He was reading. 

“ What are you reading, Harry? ” asked he. 

“A poem,” said Harry; and, rising as before, he brought 
the book to Hugh. It was Mrs. Hemans’ Poems. 

“You are fond of poetry, Harry.” 

“Yes, very.” 

“ Whose poems do you like best ? ” 

“ Mrs. Hemans’, of course. Don’t you think she is the 
best, sir ? ” 

“ She writes very beautiful verses, Harry. Which poem 
are you reading now ? ” 

“ Oh ! ono of my favorites — 1 The Voice of Spring.’ ” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


127 


“ Who taught you to like Mrs. Hemans ? ” 

“ Euphra, of course.” 

“Will you read the poem to me ? ” 

Harry began, and read the poem through, with much taste 
and evident enjoyment, — an enjoyment which seemed, however, 
to spring more from the music of the thought and its embodi- 
ment in sound, than from sympathy with the forms of nature 
called up thereby. This was shown by his mode of reading, 
in which the music was everything, and the sense little or 
nothing. When he came to the line, 


“ And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,” 

he smiled so delightedly, that Hugh said : — 

“ Are you fond of the larch, Harry ? ” 

“Yes, very.” 

“ Are there any about here ? ” 

“I don’t know. What is it like ? ” 

“ You said you were fond of it.” 

“ Oh, yes ; it is a tree with beautiful tassels, you know. 
I think I should like to see one. Isn’t it a beautiful line? ” 

“ When you have finished the poem, we will go and see if 
we can find one anywhere in the woods. We must know 
where we are in the world, Harry, — what is all round about 
us, you know.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Harry ; “let us go and hunt the larch.” 

“ Perhaps we shall meet Spring, if we look for her — per- 
haps hear her voice too.” 

“ That would be delightful,” answered Harry, smiling. 
And away they went. 

I may just mention here that Mrs. Hemans was allowed to 
retire gradually, till at last she was to be found only in the 
more inaccessible recesses of the library -shelves ; while by 
that time Harry might be heard, not all over the house, cer- 
tainly, but as far off as outside the closed door of the library, 
reading aloud to himself one or other of Macaulay’s ballads, 
with an evident enjoyment of the go in it. A story with a 
drum and trumpet accompaniment was quite enough, for the 
present, to satisfy Harry; and Macaulay could give him 
*hat, if little more. 


128 


DAVfD ELGINBROD. 


As they 'went across the lawn towards the shrubbery, on 
their way to look for larches and Spring, Euphra joined them 
in walking dress. It was a lovely morning. 

“I have taken you at your word, you see, Mr. Suther- 
land,^ ” said she. “ I don’t want to lose my Harry quite.” 

“You dear, kind Euphra! ” said Harry, going round to 
her side and taking her hand. He did not stay long with her, 
however, nor did Euphra seem particularly to want him. 

“There was one thing I ought to have mentioned to you 
the other night, Mr. Sutherland ; and I dare say I should have 
mentioned it, had not Mr. Arnold interrupted our tete-a-tete. 
I feel now as if I had been guilty of claiming far more that I 
have a right to, on the score of musical insight. I have 
Scotch blood in me, and was indeed born in Scotland, though 
I left it before I was a year old. My mother, Mr. Arnold’s 
sister, married a gentleman who was half Scotch ; and I was 
born while they were on a visit to his relatives, the Camerons 
of Lochnie. His mother, my grandmother, was a Bohemian 
lady, a countess with sixteen quarterings, — not a gypsy, I beg 

to say.” . 

Hugh thought she might have been, to judge from present 

appearances. 

But how was he to account for this torrent of genealogical 
information, into which the ice of her late constraint had sud- 
denly thawed ? It was odd that she should all at once volun • 
teer so much about herself. Perhaps she had made up one 
of those minds which need making up, every now and then, 
like a monthly magazine ; and now was prepared to publish it. 
Hugh responded with a question : — 

“Do I know your name, then, at last? You are Miss 
Cameron?” 

“Euphrasia Cameron; at your service, sir.” And she 
dropped a gay little courtesy to Hugh, looking up at him with 
a flash of her black diamonds. 

“ Then you must sing to me to-night.” 

“With all the pleasure in gypsy-land,” replied she, with a 
second courtesy, lower than the first ; taking for granted, no 
doubt, his silent judgment on her person and complexion. 

By this time they had reached the woods in a different 
quarter from that which Hugh had gone through the other 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


129 


day with Harry. And here, in very deed, the Spring met 
them, with a profusion jf richness to which Hugh was quite a 
stranger. The ground was carpeted with primroses, and anem- 
ones, and other spring flowers, which are the loveliest of all 
flowers. They were drinking the sunlight, which fell upon 
them through the budded boughs. By the time the light 
should be hidden from them by the leaves, which are the 
clouds of the lower firmament of the woods, their need of it 
would be gone : exquisites in living, they cared only for the 
delicate morning of the year. 

u Do look at this darling, Mr. Sutherland!” exclaimed 
Euphrasia, suddenly, as she bent at the root of a great beech, 
where grew a large bush of rough leaves, with one tiny but 
perfectly formed primrose peeping out between. “ Is it not a 
little pet? — all eyes — all one eye staring out of its cur- 
tained bed to see what ever is going on in the world. You 
had better lie down again ; it is not a nice place.” 

She spoke to it as if it had been a kitten or a baby. And 
as she spoke she pulled the leaves yet closer over the little 
starer, so as to hide it quite. 

As they went on, she almost obtrusively avoided stepping 
on the flowers, saying she always felt cruel, or at least rude, 
when she did so. Yet she trailed her dress over them in quite 
a careless way, not lifting it at all. This was a peculiarity of 
hers, which Hugh never understood till he understood herself. 

All about in shady places, the ferns were busy untucking 
themselves from their grave-clothes, unrolling their mysteri- 
ous coils of life, adding continually to the hidden growth as 
they unfolded the visible. In this, they were like the other 
revelations of God the Infinite. All the wild, lovely things 
were coming up for their month’s life of joy. Orchis-harle- 
quins, cuckoo-plants, wild arums, more properly lords-and- 
ladies , were coming, and coming — slowly : for had they not 
a long way to come, from the valley of the shadow of death 
into the land of life? At last the wanderers came upon a 
whole company of bluebells, — not what Hugh would have 
called bluebells, for the bluebells of Scotland are the sin- 
gle-poised harebells, — but wild hyacinths, growing in a damp 
and shady spot, in wonderful luxuriance. They were quite 
three feet in height, with long, graceful, drooping heads; 


ISO 


DAVII) ELGINBROD. 


hanging down from them, all along one side, the largest and 
loveliest of bells, — one lying close above the other, on the 
lower part ; while they parted thinner and thinner as they 
rose towards the lonely one at the top. Miss Cameron went 
into ecstasies over these; not saying much, bui breaking up 
what she did say with many prettily passionate pauses. 

She had a very happy turn for seeing external resem- 
blances, either humorous or pathetic ; for she had much of one 
element that goes to the making of a poet, namely, surface 
impressibility. 

u Look, Harry ; they are all sad at having to go down there 
again so soon. They are looking at their graves so ruefully.’' 

° Harry looked sad and rather sentimental immediately. 
When Hugh glanced at Miss Cameron, he saw tears in her 
eyes. 

“ You have nothing like this in your country, have you, 
Mr. Sutherland? ” said she, with an apparent effort. 

“ No, indeed,” answered Hugh. 

And he said no more. For a vision rose before him of the 
rugged pine-wood and the single primrose ; and of the thought- 
fuf maiden, with unpolished speech and rough hands, and — 
but this he did not see — a soul slowly refining itself to a 
crystalline clearness. And he thought of the grand old gray- 
haired David, and of Janet with her quaint motherhood, and 
of all the blessed bareness of the ancient time — in sunlight 
and in snow ; and he felt again that he had forgotten and for- 
saken his friends. 

“ How the fairies will be ringing the bells in these airy 
steeples in the moonlight ! ” said Miss Cameron to Harry, 
who was surprised and delighted with it all. He could not 
help wondering, however, after he went to bed that night, that 
Euphra had never before taken him to see these beautiful 
things, and had never before said anything half so pretty to 
him, as the least pretty thing she had said about the flowers 
that morning when they were out with Mr. Sutherland. Had 
Mr. Sutherland anything to do with it ? Was he giving Eu- 
phra a lesson in flowers, such as he had given him in pigs ? 

Miss Cameron presently drew Hugh into conversation again, 
and the old times were once more forgotten for a season 
They are worthy of distinguishing note, — that trio in those 


DAVID ELGINBUOD. 


131 


Bpring woods : the boy waking up to feel that flowers and buds 
were lovelier in the woods than in verses ; Euphra finding 
everything about her sentimentally useful, and really delight 
ing in the prettinesses they suggested to her ; and Hugh regard- 
ing the whole chiefly as a material and means for reproducing 
in verse such impressions of delight as he had received and 
still received from all (but the highest) poetry about nature. 
The presence of Harry and his necessities was certainly a 
saving influence upon Hugh ; but, however much he sought to 
realize Harry’s life, he himself, at this period of his history, 
enjoyed everything artistically far more than humanly. 

Margaret would have walked through all this infant sum- 
mer without speaking at all, but with a deep light far back in 
her quiet eyes. Perhaps she would not have had many 
thoughts about the flowers. Rather she would have thought 
the very flowers themselves ; would have been at home with 
them, in a delighted oneness with their life and expression. 
Certainly she would have walked through them with reverence, 
and would not have petted or patronized nature by saying 
pretty things about her children. Their life w r ould have en- 
tered into her, and she would have hardly known it from her 
own. I dare say Miss Cameron would have called a mountain 
a darling or a beauty. Rut there are other ways of showing 
affection than by patting and petting; though Margaret, for 
her part, would have needed no art-expression, because she had 
the things themselves. It is not always those who utter best 
who feel most ; and the dumb poets are sometimes dumb be- 
cause it would need the “ large utterance of the early gods” 
to carry their thoughts through the gates of speech. 

But the fancy and skin-sympathy of Miss Cameron began 
already to tell upon Hugh. He knew very little of women, 
and had never heard a woman talk as she talked. He did 
not know how cheap this accomplishment is, and took it for 
sensibility, imaginativeness, and even originality. He thought 
she was far more en rapport with nature than he was. It was 
much easier to make this mistake after hearing the really de- 
lightful way in which she sang. Certainly she could not have 
sung so, perhaps not even have talked so, except she had been 
capable of more ; but, to be capable of more, and to be for 
more, are two very distinct conditions. 


132 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Many walks followed this, extending themselves farther and 
farther from home, as Harry’s strength gradually improved. 
It was quite remarkable how his interest in everything external 
increased, in exact proportion as he learned to see into the in- 
side or life of it. With most children, the interest in the external 
comes first, and with many ceases there. But it is in reality 
only a shallower form of the deeper sympathy ; and in those 
cases where it does lead to a desire after the hidden nature of 
things, it is perhaps the better beginning of the two. In such 
exceptional cases as Harry’s, it is of unspeakable importance 
that both the difference and the identity should be recognized ; 
and in doing so, Hugh became to Harry his big brother indeed, 
for he led him where he could not go alone. 

As often as Mr. Arnold was from home, which happened not 
unfrequently, Miss Cameron accompanied them in their ram- 
bles. She gave as her reason for doing so only on such occa- 
sions, that she never liked to be out of the way when her uncle 
might want her. Traces of an inclination to quarrel with Hugh, 
or even to stand upon her dignity, had all but vanished ; and 
as her vivacity never failed her, as her intellect was always 
active, and as by the exercise of her will she could enter sym- 
pathetically, or appear to enter, into everything, her presence 
was not in the least a restraint upon them. 

On one occasion, when Harry had actually run a little way 
after a butterfly, Hugh said to her : — 

u What did you mean, Miss Cameron, by saying you were 
only a poor relation? You are certainly mistress of the 
house.” 

“ On sufferance, yes. But I am only a poor relation. I 
have no fortune of my own.” 

“ But Mr. Arnold does not treat you as such.” 

“ Oh ! no. He likes me. He is very kind to me. He gave 
me this ring on my last birthday. Is it not a beauty ? ” 

She pulled off her glove, and showed a very fine diamond on 
a finger worthy of the ornament. 

“ It is more like a gentleman’s, is it not?” she added, 
drawing it off. 11 Let me see how it would look on your 
hand.” 

She gave the ring to Hugh ; who, laughing, got it with some 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


133 


difficulty just over the first joint of his little finder, and held 
it up for Euphra to see. 

“ Ah ! I see I cannot ask you to wear it for me,” said she. 
“ I don’t like it myself. I am afraid, however,” she added, 
with an arch look, “ my uncle would not like it either — on 
your finger. Put it on mine again.” 

Holding her hand towards Hugh, she continued : — 

“ It must not be promoted just yet. Besides, I see you 
have a still better one of your own.” 

As Hugh did according to her request, the words sprang to 
his lips, “ There are other ways of wearing a ring than on the 
finger.” But they did not cross the threshold of speech. Was 
it the repression of them that caused that strange flutter and 
slight pain at the heart, which he could not quite under 
stand? 


CHAPTER XXL 


FATIMA. 

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make 
Breathed forth the sound that said, “ I hate,” 

To me that languished for her sake: 

But when she saw my woful state, 

Straight in her heart did mercy come, 

Chiding that tongue that, ever sweet. 

Was used in giving gentle doom. 

And taught it thus anew to greet: 

“ I hate ” she altered with an end, 

That followed it as gentle day 
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend, 

From heaven to hell is flown away. 

I hate ” from hate away she threw, 

And saved my life, saying — “ Not you.” 

Shakespearb. 


Mr. Arnold was busy at home for a few days after this, 
and Hugh and Harry had to go out alone. One day, when 
the wind was rather cold, they took refuge in the barn ; for it 
was part of Hugh’s especial care that Harry should be ren- 
dered hardy, by never being exposed to more than he could 
bear without a sense of suffering. As soon as the boy began 


134 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


to feel fatigue, or cold, or any other discomfort, his tutor took 

measures accordingly. ^ , 

Harry would have crept into the straw-house; but Hugh 
said, pulling a book out of his pocket : 

“ I have a poem here for you, Harry. I want to read it to 
you now ; and we can’t see in there. 

They threw themselves down on the straw, and Hugh, open- 
in* a volume of Robert Browning’s poems, read the famous 
ride from Ghent to Aix. He knew the poem well, and read it 
well. Harry was in raptures. 

“I -wish I could read that as you do,” said he. 

“ Try,” said Hugh. _ , _ 

Harry tried the first verse, and threw the book down in 

disgust with himself. 

“Why cannot I read it? ” said he. 

“ Because you can’t ride.” 

“ I could ride, if I had such a horse as that to ride upon. 

“ But you could never have such a horse as that except you 
could ride, and ride well, first. After that, there is no saying 
but you might get one. You might, in fact, train one for 
yourself till from being a little foal it became your own 
wonderful horse.” 

“Oh! that would be delightful! Will you teach me 
horses as well, Mr. Sutherland? ” 

“ Perhaps I will.” 

That evening, at dinner, Hugh said to Mr. Arnold : — 

“ Could you let me have a horse to-morrow morning, Mr. 
Arnold?” 

Mr. Arnold stared a little, as he always did at anything 
new. But Hugh went on : — 

“Harry and I want to have a ride to-morrow; and I ex- 
pect we shall like it so much, that we shall want to ride very 
often.” 

“ Yes, that we shall ! ” cried Harry. 

“ Could not Mr. Sutherland have your white mare, Eu- 
phra? ” said Mr. Arnold, reconciled at once to the proposal. 

“ I would rather not, if you don’t mind, uncle. My Fatty 
is not used to such a burden as I fear Mr. Sutherland would 
prove. She drops a little now, on the hard road.” 

Ths fact was, Euphra would want Fatima. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


135 


“ Well, Harry,” said Mr. Arnold, graciously pleased to be 
facetious, “don’t you think your Welch dray-horse could 
carry Mr. Sutherland?” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! Papa, do you know, Mr. Sutherland set 
him up on his hind legs yesterday, and made him walk on 
them like a dancing-dog. He was going to lift him, but he 
kicked about so when he felt himself leaving the ground, that 
he tumbled Mr. Sutherland into the horse-trough.” 

Even the solemn face of the butler relaxed into a smile, but 
Mr. Arnold’s clouded instead. His boy’s tutor ought to be a 
gentleman. 

“Wasn’t it fun, Mr. Sutherland?” 

“ It was to you, you little rogue ! ” said Sutherland, 
laughing. 

“ And how you did run home, dripping like a water-cart ! 
— and all the dogs after you ! ” 

Mr. Arnold’s monotonous solemnity soon checked Harry’s 
prattle. 

“ I will see, Mr. Sutherland, what I can do to mount you.” 

“I don’t care what it is,” said Hugh ; who, though by no 
means a thorough horseman, had been from boyhood in the 
habit of mounting everthing in the shape of a horse that he 
could lay hands upon, from a cart-horse upwards and down- 
wards. “There’s an old bay that would carry me very 
well.” 

“ That is my own horse, Mr. Sutherland.” 

This stopped the conversation in that direction. But next 
morning after breakfast, an excellent chestnut horse was wait- 
ing at the door, along with Harry’s new pony. Mr. Arnold 
would see them go off. This did not exactly suit Miss Cameron • 
but if she frowned, it was when nobody saw her. Hugh put 
Harry up himself, told him to stick fast with his knees, and 
then mounted his chestnut. As they trotted slowly down the 
avenue, Euphrasia heard Mr. Arnold say to himself, “ The 
feilow sits well, at all events.” She took care to make her- 
self agreeable to Hugh by reporting this, with the omission of 
the initiatory epithet however. 

Harry returned from his ride rather tired, but in high 

spirits. # 

“ 0 Euphra ! ” he cried, “ Mr. Sutherland is such a 


136 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


rider ! He jumps hedges and ditches and everything. And 
he has promised to teach me and my pony to jump too. And 
if I am not too tired, we are to begin to-morrow, out on the 
common. Oh! jolly! 5 ’ 

The little fellow’s heart was full of the sense of growing 
life and strength, and Hugh was delighted with his own suc- 
cess. He caught sight of a serpentine motion in Euphra’s 
eyebrows, as she bent her face again over the work from which 
she had lifted it on their entrance. He addressed her. 

“ You will be glad to hear that Harry has ridden like a 
man.” 

“Iarn glad to hear it, Harry.” 

Why did she reply to the subject of the remark, and not to 
the speaker ? Hugh perplexed himself in vain to answer this 
question ; but a very small amount of experience would have 
made him able to understand at once as much of her behavior 
as was genuine. At luncheon she spoke only in reply ; and 
then so briefly, as not to afford the smallest peg on which to 
hang a response. 

“ What can be the matter?” thought Hugh. “ What a 
peculiar creature she is ! But after what has passed between 
us, I can’t stand this.” 

When dinner was over that evening, she rose as usual and 
left the room, followed by Hugh and Harry ; but as soon as 
they were in the drawing-room she left it ; and, returning to 
the dining-room, resumed her seat at the table. 

“Take a glass of claret, Euphra, dear?” said Mr. Ar- 
nold. 

“ I will, if you please, uncle. I should like it. I have 
seldom a minute with you alone now.” 

Evidently flattered, Mr. Arnold poured out a glass of 
claret, rose and carried it to his niece himself, and then took a 
chair beside her. 

“Thank* you, dear uncle,” she said, with one of her be- 
witching flashes of smile. 

“ Harry has been getting on bravely with his riding, has 
he not? ” she continued. 

“So it would appear.” 

Harry had been full of the story of the day at the dinner- 
table, where he still continued to present himself ; for his fa 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


187 


ther -would not be satisfied without him. It was certainty 
good moral training for the boy, to sit there almost without 
eating ; and none the worse that he found it rather hard some- 
times. He talked much more freely now, and asked the ser- 
vants for anything he wanted without referring to Euphra. 
Now and then he would glance at her, as if afraid of offending 
her ; but the cords which bound him to her -were evidently 
relaxing ; and she saw it plainly enough, though she made no 
reference to the unpleasing fact. 

u I am only a little fearful, uncle, lest Mr. Sutherland 
should urge the boy to do more than his strength will admit 
of. He is exceedingly kind to him, but he has evidently 
never known what weakness is himself.” 

“ True, there is danger of that. But you see he has taken 
him so entirely into his own hands. I don’t seem to be allowed 
a word in the matter of his education anymore.” Mr. Arnold 
spoke with the peevishness of weak importance. “ I wish you 
would take care that he does not carry things too far, Euphra.” 

This was just what Euphra wanted. 

11 1 think, if you do not disaprove, uncle, I will have Fatima 
saddled to-morrow morning, and go with them myself.” 

“ Thank you, my love ; I shall be much obliged to you.” 

The glass of claret was soon finished after this. A little 
more conversation about nothing followed, and Euphra rose 
the second time, and returned to the drawing-room. She found 
it unoccupied. She sat down to the piano, and sang song after 
B ong, — Scotch. Italian, and Bohemian. But Hugh did not make 
his appearance. The fact was, he was busy writing to his 
mother, whom he had rather neglected since he came. Writing to 
her made him think of David, and he began a letter to him too ; 
but it was never finished, and never sent. He did not return 
to the drawing-room that evening. Indeed, except for a short 
time, while Mr. Arnold was drinking his claret, he seldom 
showed himself there. Had Euphra repelled him too much — 
hurt him ? She would make up for it to-morrow. 

Breakfast was scarcely over, when the chestnut and the 
pony passed the window, accompanied by a lovely little Arab 
mare, broad-chested and light-limbed, with a wonderfully small 
head. She was white as snow, with keen, dark eyes. Her 
curb-rein was red instead of white. Hearing their approach, 


138 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


and begging her uncle to excuse her, Euphra rose fiom the 
table, and left the room; but reappeared in a wonderfully 
little while, in a well-fitted riding-habit of black velvet, with a 
belt of dark red leather, clasping a waist of the roundest and 
smallest. Her little hat, likewise black, had a single long, 
white feather, laid horizontally within the upturned brim, and 
drooping over it at the back. Her white mare would be just 
the right pedestal for the dusky figure, — black eyes, tawny 
skin, and all. As she stood ready to mount, and Hugh was 
approaching to put her up, she called the groom, seemed just 
to touch his hand, and was in the saddle in a moment, foot in 
stirrup, and skirt falling over it. Hugh thought she was 
carrying out the behavior of yesterday, and was determined 
to ask her what it meant. The little Arab began to rear and 
plunge with pride, as soon as she felt her mistress on her back ; 
but she seemed as much at home as if she had been on the 
music-stool, and patted her arching neck, talking to her in the 
same tone almost in which she had addressed the flowers. 

“ Be quiet, Fatty, ’dear; you’re frightening Mr. Suther- 
land.” 

But Hugh, seeing the next moment that she was in no 
danger, sprang into his saddle. Away they went, Fatima in- 
fusing life and frolic into the equine as Euphra into the 
human portion of the cavalcade. Having reached the common, 
out of sight of the house, Miss Cameron, instead of looking 
after Harry, lest he should have too much exercise, scampered 
about like a wild girl, jumping everything that came in her 
way, and so exciting Harry’s pony, that it was almost more 
than he could do to manage it, till at last Hugh had to beg 
her to go more quietly, for Harry’s sake. She drew up 
alongside of them at once ; and made her mare stand as still as 
she could, while Harry made his first essay upon a little ditch. 
After crossing it two or three times, he gathered courage ; and 
setting his pony at a larger one beyond, bounded across it 
beautifully. 

u Bravo ! Harry ! ” cried both Euphra and Hugh. Harry 
galloped back, and over it again ; then came up to them with a 
glow of proud confidence on his pale face. 

“ You’ll be a horseman yet, Harry,” said Hugh. 

“ I hope so,” said Harry, in an aspiring tone, which greatly 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


139 


satisfied his tutor. The boy’s spirit was evidently reviving. 
Euphra must, have managed him ill. Yet she was not in the 
least effeminate herself. It puzzled Hugh a good deal. But 
he did not think about it long ; for Harry cantering away in 
front, he had an opportunity of saying to Euphra : — 

“ Are you offended with me, Miss Cameron?” 

“ Offended with you! What do you mean? A girl like 
me offended with a man like you ? ” 

She looked two and twenty as she spoke ; but even at that 
she was older than Hugh. He, however, certainly looked 
considerably older than he really was. 

“ What makes you think so ? ” she added, turning her face 
towards him. 

“ You would not speak to me when we came home yester- 
day.” 

“Not speak to you? — I had a little headache; and 
perhaps I was a little sullen, from having been in such bad 
company all the morning.” 

“What company had you? ” asked Hugh, gazing at her in 
some surprise. 

“My own,” answered she, with a lovely laugh, thrown full 
in his face. Then after a pause, “Let me advise you, if you 
want to live in peace, not to embark on that ocean of dis- 
covery.” 

“What ocean? what discovery?” asked Hugh, bewildered, 
and still gazing. 

“The troubled ocean of ladies’ looks,” she replied. “You 
will never be able to live in the same house with one of our 
kind, if it be necessary to your peace to find out what every 
expression that puzzles you may mean.” 

“ I did not intend to be inquisitive ; it really troubled me.” 

“ There it is. You must never mind us. We show so 
much sooner than men ; but, take warning, there is no making 
out what it is we do show. Your faces are legible ; ours are 
so scratched and interlined, that you had best give up at once 
the idea of deciphering them." 

Hugh could not help looking once more at the smooth, 
simple, naive countenance shining upon him. 

“ There you are at it again,” she said, blushing a little, and 
turning her head away. “Well, to comfort you, I will confess 


140 


DAVID ELGINBKOD. 


I was rather cross yesterday — because — because you seemed 
to have been quite happy with only one of your pupils.” 

As she spoke the words, she gave Fatima the rein, and 
bounded off, overtaking Harry’s pony in a moment. Nor did 
she leave her cousin during all the rest of their ride. 

Most women in whom the soul has anything like a chance 
of reaching the windows are more or less beautiful in their 
best moments. Euphra’s best was when she was trying to 
fascinate. Then she was — fascinating. During the first 
morning that Hugh spent at Arnstead, she had probably been 
making up her mind whether, between her and Hugh, it was 
to be war to the knife, or fascination. The latter had carried 
the day, and was now carrying him. But had she calculated 
that fascination may react as well ? 

Hugh’s heart bounded, like her Arab steed, as she uttered 
the words last recorded. He gave his chestnut the rein in his 
turn, to overtake her ; but Fatima’s canter quickened into a 
gallop, and, inspirited by her companionship, and the fact that 
their heads were turned stablewards, Harry’s pony, one of the 
quickest of its race, laid itself to the ground, and kept up, 
taking three strides for Fatty’s two, so that Hugh never got 
within three lengths of them till they drew rein at the hall 
door, where the grooms were waiting them. Euphra was off 
her mare in a moment, and had almost reached her own room 
before Hugh and Harry had crossed the hall. She came down 
to luncheon in a white muslin dress, with the smallest possible 
red spot in it ; and, taking her place at the table, seemed to 
Hugh to have put off not only her riding-habit, but the self 
that was in it as well ; for she chatted away in the most uncon 
cerned and easy manner possible, as if she had not been out of 
her room all the morning. She had ridden so hard, that she 
had left her last speech in the middle of the common, and its 
mood with it ; and there seemed now no likelihood of either 
finding its way home. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


141 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE PICTURE-GALLERY. 


. . the house is crencled to and fro, 

And hath so queint waies for to go, 

For it is shapen as the mase is wrought. 

Chaucer. — Legend of Ariadne. 

Luncheon over, and Harry dismissed as usual to lie down, 
Miss Cameron said to Hugh : — 

“You have never been over the old house yet, I believe, 
Mr. Sutherland. Would you not like to see it? ” 

“I should indeed,” said Hugh. “It is what I have long 
hoped for, and have often been on the point of begging.” 

1 1 Come then ; I will be your guide, — if you will trust 
yourself with a madcap like me, in the solitudes of the old 
hive.” 

“ Lead on to the family vaults, if you will,” said Hugh. 

“ That might be possible, too, from below. We are not so 
very far from them. Even within the house there is an old 
chapel, and some monuments worth looking at. Shall we take 
it last ? ” 

“ As you think best,” answered Hugh. 

She rose and rang the bell. When it was answered, 

“Jacob,” she said, “get me the keys of the house from 
Mrs. Horton.” 

Jacob vanished, and reappeared with a huge bunch of keys- 
She took them. 

“ Thank you. They should not be allowed to get quite 
rusty, Jacob.” 

“ Please, miss, Mrs. Horton desired me to say she would 
have seen to them, if she had known you wanted them.” 

“ Oh ! never mind. Just tell my maid to bring me an old 
pair of gloves.” 

Jacob went; and the maid came with the required armor. 

“Now, Mr. Sutherland. Jane, you will some with us. 
No, you need not take the keys. I will find those I want as 
we go.” 

She unlocked a door m the corner of the hall, which Hugh 


142 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


had never seen open. Passing through a long low passage, 
they came to a spiral staircase of stone, up which they went, 
arriving at another wide hall, very dusty, but in perfect repair. 
Hugh asked if there was not some communication between this 
hall and the great oak staircase. 

“Yes,” answered Euphra; “but this is the more direct 
way.” 

As she said this, he felt somehow as if she cast on him one 
of her keenest glances; but the place was very dusky, and he 
stood in a spot where the light fell upon him from an opening 
in a shutter, while she stood in deep shadow. 

“ Jane, open that shutter.” 

The girl obeyed ; and the entering light revealed the walls 
covered with paintings, many of them apparently of no value, 
yet adding much to the effect of the place. Seeing that Hugh 
was at once attracted by the pictures, Euphra said : — 

“ Perhaps you would like to see the picture-gallery first? ” 

Hugh assented. Euphra chose key after key, and opened 
door after door, till they came into a long gallery well lighted 
from each end. The windows were soon opened. 

“Mr. Arnold is very proud of his pictures, especially of his 
family portraits ; but he is content with knowing he has them, 
and never visits them except to show them ; or perhaps once or 
twice a year, when something or other keeps him at home for 
a day, without anything particular to do.” 

In glancing over the portraits, some of them by famous 
masters, Hugh’s eyes were arrested by a blonde beauty in the 
dress of the time of Charles II. There was such a reality of 
self-willed boldness as well as something worse in her face 
that, though arrested by the picture, Hugh felt ashamed of 
looking at it in the presence of Euphra and her maid. The 
pictured woman almost put him out of countenance, and yet at 
the same time fascinated him. Dragging his eyes from it, he 
saw that Jane had turned her back upon it, while Euphra re- 
garded it steadily. 

“ Open that opposite window, Jane,” said she. “There is 
not light enough on this portrait.” 

Jane obeyed. While she did so, Hugh caught a glimpse of 
her face, and saw that the formerly rosy girl was deadly pale. 
He said to Euphra : — 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


145 


“ Your maid seems ill, Miss Cameron.” 

“ Jane, what is the matter with you? ” 

She did not reply, but, leaning against the wall, seemed 
ready to faint. 

“ The place is close,” said her mistress. “ Go into the 
next room there,” — she pointed to a door — “and open the 
window. You will soon be well.” 

“ If you please, miss, I would rather stay with you. This 
place makes me feel that strange.” 

She had come but lately, and had never been over the house 
before. 

“Nonsense! ” said Miss Cameron, looking at her sharply. 
“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Please, don’t be angry, miss ; but the first night e’er I 
slept here, I saw that very lady — ” 

“ Saw that lady ! ” 

“ Well, miss, I mean, I dreamed that I saw her; and 1 re- 
membered her the minute I see her up there ; and she give me 
a turn like. I’m all right now, miss.” 

Euphra fixed her eyes on her, and kept them fixed, till she 
was very nearly all wrong again. She turned as pale as be- 
fore, and began to draw her breath hard. 

“ You silly goose ! ” said Euphra, and withdrew her eyes; 
upon which the girl began to breathe more freely. 

Hugh was making some wise remarks in his own mind on 
the unsteady condition of a nature in which the imagination 
predominates over the powers of reflection, when Euphra turned 
to him, and began to tell him that that was the picture of her 
three or four times great-grandmother, painted by Sir Peter 
Lely, just after she was married. 

“ Isn’t she fair ? ” said she. “ She turned nun at last, they 
Bay.” 

“ She is more fair than honest,” thought Hugh. “ It would 
take a great deal of nun to make her into a saint.” But he 
only said, “ She is more beautiful than lovely. What was her 
name ? ” 

“If you mean her maiden name, it was Halkar, — Lady 
Euphrasia Halkar, — named after me, you see. She had 
foreign blood in her, of course ; and, to tell the truth, there 
were strange stories told of her, of more sorts than one. I 


144 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


know nothing of her family. It was never heard of in England, 

I believe, till after the Restoration.” 

All the time Euphra was speaking, Hugh was being per- 
plexed with that most annoying of perplexities, — the flitting 
phantom of a resemblance, which he could not catch. He was 
forced to dismiss it for the present, utterly baffled. 

“ Were you really named after her, Miss Cameron? ” 

“ No, no. It is a family name with us. But, indeed, I 
may be said to he named after her, for she was the first of us 
who bore it. You don’t seem to like the portrait.” 

“I do not; but I cannot help looking at it, for all that.” 

u I am so used to the lady’s face,” said Euphra, “ that it 
makes no impression on me of any sort. But it is said,” she 
added, glancing at the maid, who stood at some distance, look- 
ing uneasily about her, — and as she spoke she lowered her 
voice to a whisper, — “it is said, she cannot lie still.” 

“ Cannot lie still ! What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean down therein the chapel,” she answered, pointing. 

The Celtic nerves of Hugh shuddered. Euphra laughed, 
and her voice echoed in silvery billows, that broke on the faces 
of the men and women of old time, that had owned the 
whole ; whose lives had flowed and ebbed in varied tides 
through the ancient house ; who had married and been given 
in marriage ; and had gone down to the chapel below, — below 
the prayers and below the psalms, — and made a Sunday of 
all the week. 

Ashamed of his feeling of passing dismay, Hugh said, just to 
say something : — 

“ What a strange ornament that is ! Is it a brooch or a 
pin? No, I declare; it is a ring, — large enough for three 
cardinals, and worn on her thumb. It seems almost to sparkle. 
Is it ruby, or carbuncle, or what ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; some clumsy old thing,” answered Euphra, 
carelessly. 

“Oh! I see,” said Hugh; “it is not a red stone. The 
glow is only a reflection from part of her dress. It is as clear 
as a diamond. But that is impossible — such a size. There 
seems to me something curious about it ; and the longer I look 
at it, the more strange it appears.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


145 


Euphra stole another of her piercing glances at him, hut 
said nothing. 

44 Surely,’ ’ Hugh went on, “a ring like that would hardly 
be likely to be lost out of the family ? Your uncle must have 
it somewhere.” 

Euphra laughed ; but this laugh was very different from the 
last. It rattled rather than rang. 

44 You are wonderfully taken with a bauble, — for a man of 
letters, that is, Mr. Sutherland. The stone may have been 
carried down any one of the hundred streams into which a family 
river is always dividing.” 

44 It is a very remarkable ornament for a lady’s finger, not- 
withstanding,” said Hugh, smiling in his turn. 

44 But we shall never get through the pictures at this rate,” 
remarked Euphra ; and, going on, she directed Hugh’s atten- 
tion now to this, now to that portrait, saying who each was, 
and mentioning anything remarkable in the history of their 
originals. She manifested a thorough acquaintance with the 
family story, and made, in fact, an excellent show-woman. 
Having gone nearly to the other end of the gallery. 

44 This door,” said she, stopping at one, and turning over 
the keys, 4 4 leads to one of the oldest portions of the house, 
the principal room in which is said to have belonged especially 
to the lady over there.” 

As she said this, she fixed her eyes once more on the maid. 

44 Oh ! don’t ye now, miss,” interrupted Jane. 44 Hannah 
du say as how a whitey-blue light shines in the window of a 
dark night, sometimes, — that lady’s window, you know, miss. 
Don’t ye open the door — pray, miss.” 

Jane seemed on the point of falling into the same terror as 
before. 

44 Really, Jane,” said her mistress, 44 1 am ashamed of you; 
and of myself, for having such silly servants about me.” 

44 1 beg your pardon, miss, but — ” 

44 So Mr. Sutherland and I must give up our plan of going 
over the house, because my maid’s nerves are too delicate to 
permit her to accompany us. For shame ! ” 

44 Oh, du ye now go without me ! ” cried the girl, clasping 
her hands. 

4 And you will wait here till we come back ? ” 


146 


DAVID ELGINBBOD. 


“Oh! don’t ye leave me here. Just show me the way 
out.” 

And once more she turned pale as death. 

“ Mr. Sutherland, I am very sorry, but we must put off the 
rest of our ramble till another time. I am, like Hamlet, very 
vilely attended, as you see. Come, then, you foolish girl,” she 
added, more mildly. 

The poor maid, what with terror of Lady Euphrasia, and 
respect for her mistress, was in a pitiable condition of moral 
helplessness. She seemed almost too frightened to walk be- 
hind them. But if she had been in front, it would have been 
no better ; for, like other ghost-fearers, she seemed to feel very 
painfully that she had no eyes in her back. 

They returned as they came ; and J ane, receiving the keys 
to take to the house-keeper, darted away. When she reached 
Mrs. Horton’s room, she sank on a chair in hysterics. 

11 1 must get rid of that girl, I fear,” said Miss Cameron, 
leading the way to the library; “she will infect the whole 
household with her foolish terrors. We shall not hear the last 
of this for some time to come. We had a fit of it the same 
year I came; and I suppose the time has come round for 
another attack of the same epidemic.” 

“ What is there about the room to terrify the poor thing? ” 

“ Oh ! they say it is haunted ; that is all. Was there ever 
an old house anywhere over Europe, especially an old family 
house, but what was said to be haunted? Here the story 
centres in that room, or at least in that room and the avenue 
in front of its windows.” 

“ Is that the avenue called the Ghost’s Walk ? ” 

“ Yes. Who told you ? ” 

“ Harry would not let me cross it.” 

“Poor boy! This is really too bad. He cannot stand 
anything of that kind, I am sure. Those servants ! ” 

“ Oh ! I hope we shall soon get him too well to be frightened 
at anything. Are these places said to be haunted by any par- 
ticular ghost? ” 

“ Yes. By Lady Euphrasia. Bubbish ! ” 

Had Hugh possessed a yet keener perception of resemblance, 
he would have seen that the phantom-likeness which haunted 
him in the portrait of Euphrasia Halkar, was that of Euphrasia 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


147 


Cameron — oy his side all the time. But the mere difference 
of complexion was sufficient to throw him out, — insignificant 
difference as that is, beside the correspondence of features and 
their relations. Euphra herself was perfectly aware of the 
likeness, but had no wish that Hugh should discover it. 

As if the likeness, however, had been dimly identified by 
the unconscious part of his being, he sat in one corner of the 
library sofa, with his eyes fixed on the face of Euphra, as she 
sat in the other. Presently he was made aware of his unin- 
tentional rudeness, by seeing her turn pale as death, and sink 
back in the sofa. In a moment she started up, and began 
pacing about the room, rubbing her eyes and temples. He 
was bewildered and alarmed. 

“ Miss Cameron, are you ill ? ” he exclaimed. 

She gave a kind of half-hysterical laugh, and said : — 

“No; nothing worth speaking of. I felt a little faint, 
that was all. I am better now.” 

She turned full towards him, and seemed to try to look all 
right ; but there was a kind of film over the clearness of her 
black eyes. 

“ I fear that you have a headache.” 

“ A little, but it is nothing. I will go and lie down.” 

“Do, pray; else you will not be well enough to appear at 
dinner.” 

She retired, and Hugh joined Harry. 

Euphra had another glass of claret with her uncle that 
evening, in order to give her report of the morning’s ride. 

“Really, there is not much to be afraid of, uncle. He 
takes very good care of Harry. To be sure, I had occasion 
several times to check him a little ; but he has this good qual- 
ity in addition to a considerable aptitude for teaching, that ho 
perceives a hint, and takes it at once.” 

Knowing her uncle’s formality, and preference for precise 
and judicial modes of expression, Euphra modelled her 
phrase to his mind. 

“I am glad he has your good opinion so far, Euphra; for 
I confess there is something about the youth that pleases me. 
I was afraid at first that I might be annoyed by his overstep- 
ping the true boundaries of his position in my family. He 
Beems to have been in good society too But your assurance 


148 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


that lie can take a hint lessens my apprehension considerably 
To-morrow I will ask him to resume his seat after dessert.’ ’ 

This was not exactly the object of Euphra’s qualified com- 
mendation of Hugh. But she could not help it now. 

u I think, however, if you approve, uncle, that it will be 
more prudent to keep a little watch over the riding for a 
while. I confess, too, I should be glad of a little more of that 
exercise than I have had for some time. I found my seat not 
very secure to-day.” 

“Very desirable on both considerations, my love.” 

And so the conference ended. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

NEST-BUILDING. 


If you will have a tree bear more fruit than it hath used to do, it is not anything 
you can do to the boughs, but it is the stirring of the earth, and putting new mould 
about the roots, that must work it. — Lord Bacon’s Advancement of Learning , b. ii. 

In a short time, Harry’s health was so much improved, and 
consequently the strength and activity of his mind so much 
increased, that Hugh began to give him more exact mental 
operations to perfcrm. But as if he had been a reader of 
Lord Bacon, which as yet he was not, and had learned from him 
that “ wonder is the seed of knowledge,” he came, by a kind 
of sympathetic instinct, to the same conclusion practically, in 
the case of Harry. He tried to wake a question in him, by 
showing him something that would rouse his interest. The 
reply to this question might be the whole rudiments of a sci- 
ence. 

Things themselves should lead to the science of them. If 
things are not interesting in themselves, how can any amount 
of knowledge about them be ? To be sure, there is such a 
thing as a purely or abstractly intellectual interest, — the 
pleasure of the mere operation of the intellect upon the signs 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


149 


of things ; but this must spring from a highly exercised intel- 
lectual condition, and is not to be expected before the pleas- 
ures of intellectual motion have been experienced through the 
employment of its means for other ends. Whether this is a 
higher condition or not is open to much disquisition. 

One day Hugh was purposely engaged in taking the alti- 
tude of the highest turret of the house, with an old quadrant 
he had found in the library, when Harry came up. 

“ What are you doing, big brother ? ” said he ; for now that 
he was quite at home with Hugh, there was a wonderful mix- 
ture of familiarity and respect in him, that was quite bewitch- 
ing. 

“ Finding out how high your house is, little broth er,” an- 
swered Hugh. 

“How can you do it with that thing? Will it measure 
the height of other things besides the house? ” 

“ Yes, the height of a mountain, or anything you like.” 

“ Do show me how.” 

Hugh showed him as much of it as he could. 

“ But I don’t understand it.” 

“ Oh ! that is quite another thing. To do that, you must 
learn a great many things, — Euclid to begin with.” 

That very afternoon Harry began Euclid, and soon found 
quite enough of interest on the road to the quadrant, to pre- 
vent him from feeling any tediousness in its length. 

Of an afternoon Hugh had taken to reading Shakespeare to 
Harry. Euphra was always a listener. On one occasion 
Harry said : — 

“lam so sorry, Mr. Sutherland, but I don’t understand 
the half of it. Sometimes when Euphra and you are laugh- 
ing, — and sometimes when Euphra is crying,” added he, 
looking at her slyly, “ I can’t understand what it is all about. 
Am I so very stupid, Mr. Sutherland?” And he almost 
cried himself. 

“ Not a bit of it, Harry, my boy ; only you must learn a 
great many other things first.” 

“ How can I learn them ? I am willing to learn anything. 
I don’t find it tire me now as it used.” 

“ There are many things necessary to understand Shakes- 
peare that I cannot teach you, and that some people nevei 


150 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


learn. Most of them will come of themselves But of one 
thing you may be sure, Harry, that if you learn anything, 
whatever it be, you are so far nearer to understanding Shakes- 
peare.” 

The same afternoon, when Harry had waked from his 
siesta, upon which Hugh still insisted, they went out for a 
walk in the fields. The sun was half way down the sky, but 
very hot and sultry. 

“ I wish we had our cave of straw to creep into now,” said 
Harry. “ I felt exactly like the little field-mouse you read to me 
about in Burns’ poems, when we went in that morning, and 
found it all torn up, and half of it carried away. We have 
no place to go to now for a peculiar own place ; and the con- 
sequence is, you have not told me any stories about the Ro- 
mans for a whole week.” 

“ Well, Harry, is there any way of making another ? ” 

“There’s no more straw lying about that I know of,” an- 
swered Harry; “and it won’t do to pull the inside out of 
a rick, I am afraid.” 

“ But don’t you think it would be pleasant to have a change 
now ; and as we have lived underground, or say in the snow 
like the North people, try living in the air like some of the 
South people ? ” 

“ Delightful ! ” cried Harry. — “A balloon ? ” 

“No, not quite that. Don’t you think a nest would do? ” 

“ Up in a tree? ” 

“Yes.” 

Harry darted off for a run, as the only means of expressing 
his delight. When he came back, he said : — 

“When shall we begin, Mr. Sutherland ? ” 

“We will go and look for a place at once ; but I am not 
quite sure when we shall begin yet. I shall find out to-night 
though.” 

They left the fields, and went into the woods in the neigh- 
borhood of the house, at the back. Here the trees had grown 
to a great size, some of them being very old indeed. They 
soon fixed upon a grotesque old oak as a proper tree in which 
to build their nest; and Harry, who, as well as Hugh, had a 
good deal of constructiveness in his nature, was so delighted, 
that the heat seemed to have no more influence upon him ; and 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


151 


Hugh, fearful of the reaction, was compelled to restrain his 
gambols. 

Pursuing their way through the dark warp of the wood, 
with its golden weft of crossing sunbeams, Hugh began to tell 
Harry the story of the killing of Caesar by Brutus and the 
rest, filling up the account with portions from Shakespeare. 
Fortunately, he was able to give the orations of Brutus and 
Antony in full. Harry was in ecstasy over the eloquence oi 
the two men. u Well, what language do you think they 
spoke, Harry?” said Hugh. 

u Why,” said Harry, hesitating, “ I suppose — ” then, as 
if a sudden light broke upon him, u Latin, of course. How 
strange ! ” 

u Why strange ? ” 

“ That such men should talk such a dry, unpleasant lan- 
guage.” 

“I allow it is a difficult language, Harry; and very pon- 
derous and mechanical ; but not necessarily dry or unpleasant. 
The Homans, you know, were particularly fond of law in 
everything ; and so they made a great many laws for their 
language; or, rather, it grew so, because they were of that 
sort. It was like their swords and armor generally, not very 
graceful, but very strong ; like their architecture too, Har- 
ry. Nobody can ever understand what a people is, without 
knowing its language. It is not only that we find all these 
stories about them in. their language, but the language itself is 
more like them than anything else can be. Besides, Harry, I 
don’t believe you know anything about Latin yet.” 

u I know all the declensions and conjugations.” 

“ But don’t you think it must have been a very different 
thing to hear it spoken ? ” 

“ Yes, to be sure, and by such men. But how ever could 
they speak it? ” 

“ They spoke it just as you do English. It was as natural 
to them. But you cannot say you know anything about it, 
till you read what they wrote in it ; till your ears delight in 
the sound of their poetry — ” 

“ Poetry? ” 

“ Yes ; and beautiful letters, and wise lessons, and histories 
and plays.” 


152 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


u Oh ! I should like you to teach me. Will it be as hard 
to learn always as it is now ? ” 

“ Certainly not. I am sure you will like it.” 

“ When will you begin me?” 

“ To-morrow. And if you get on pretty well, we will 
h^gin our nest, too, in the afternoon.” 

“ Oh, how kind you are ! I will try very hard.” 

“ I am sure you will, Harry.” 

Next morning, accordingly, Hugh did begin him, after a 
a fashion of his own ; namely, by giving him a short, simple 
story to read, finding out all the words with him in the dic- 
tionary, and telling him w T hat the terminations of the words 
signified ; for he found that he had already forgotten a very 
great deal of what, according to Euphra, he had been thor- 
oughly taught. No one can remember what is entirely unin- 
teresting to him. 

Hugh was as precise about the grammar of a language as . 
any Scotch Professor of Humanity, old Prosody not excepted; 
but he thought it time enough to begin to that, when some in- 
terest in the words themselves should have been awakened in 
the mind of his pupil. He hated slovenliness as much as any 
one ; but the question was, how best to arrive at thoroughness 
in the end, without losing the higher objects of study ; and not 
how, at all risks, to commence teaching the lesson of thorough- 
ness at once, and so waste on the shape of a pin-head the in- 
tellect which, properly directed, might arrive at the far more 
minute accuracies of a steam-engine. The fault of Euphra in 
teaching Harry had been, that, with a certain kind of tyran- 
nical accuracy, she had determined to have the thing done, — 
not merely decently and in order, but prudishly and pedanti- 
cally ; so that she deprived progress of the pleasure which 
ought naturally to attend it. She spoiled the walk to the dis- 
tant outlook, by stopping at every step, not merely to pick 
flowers, but to botanize on the weeds, and to calculate the dis- 
tance advanced. It is quite true that we ought to learn to do 
things irrespective of the reward ; but plenty of opportunities 
will be given in the progress of life, and in much higher kinds 
of action, to exercise our sense of duty in severe loneliness. 
We haye no right to turn intellectual exercises into pure oper- 
ations of conscience ; these ought to involve essential duty ; al* 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


153 


though no doubt there is plenty of room for mingling duty 
with those ; while, on the other hand, the highest act of suffer- 
ing self-denial is not without its accompanying reward. Nei- 
ther is there any exercise of the higher intellectual powers in 
learning the mere grammar of a language, necessary as it is 
for a means. And language having been made before gram- 
mar, a language must be in some measure understood, before 
its grammar can become intelligible. 

Harry’s weak (though true and keen) life could not force 
its way into any channel. His was a nature essentially de- 
pendent on sympathy. It could flow into truth through 
another loving mind ; left to itself, it could not find the way, 
and sank in the dry sand of ennui and self-imposed obligations. 
Euphra was utterly incapable of understanding him ; and the 
boy had been dying for lack of sympathy, though neither he 
nor any one about him had suspected the fact. 

There was a strange disproportion between his knowledge 
and his capacity. He was able, when his attention was di- 
rected, his gaze fixed, and his whole nature supported by 
Hugh, to see deep into many things, and his remarks were 
often strikingly original ; but he was one of the most ignorant 
boys, for his years, that Hugh had ever come across. A 
long and severe illness, when he was just passing into boyhood, 
had thrown him back far into his childhood ; and he was only 
now beginning to show that he had anything of the boy-life in 
him. Hence arose that unequal development which has been 
sufficiently evident in the story. 

In the afternoon they went to the wood, and found the tree 
they had chosen for their nest. To Harry’s intense admira- 
tion, Hugh, as he said, went up the tree like a squirrel, only 
he was too big for a bear even. Just one layer of foliage 
above the lowest branches, he came to a place where he thought 
there was a suitable foundation for the nest. From the ground 
Harry could scarcely see him, as, with an axe which he had 
borrowed for the purpose (for there was a carpenter’s work- 
shop on the premises), he cut away several small branches 
from three of the principal ones ; and so had these three as 
rafters, ready dressed and placed, for the foundation of the 
nest. Having made some measurements, he descended, and 
repairing with Harry to the workshop, procured some boarding 


li>4 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


and some tools, which Harry assisted in carrying to the tree. 
Ascending again, and drawing up his materials, by the help of 
Harry, with a piece of string, Hugh in a very little while had 
a level floor, four feet square, in the heart of the oak-tree, 
quite invisible from below, — buried in a cloud of green leaves. 
For greater safety, he fastened ropes as hand-rails all around it 
from one branch to another. And now nothing remained but 
to construct a bench to sit on, and such a stair as Harry could 
easily climb. The boy was quite restless with anxiety to get 
up and see the nest ; and kept calling out constantly to know if 
he might not come up yet. At length Hugh allowed him to 
try ; but the poor boy was not half strong enough to climb the 
tree without help. So Hugh descended, and with his aid Har- 
ry was soon standing on the new-built platform. 

“ I feel just like an eagle,” he cried; but here his voice 
faltered, and he was silent. 

“ What is the matter, Harry? ” said his tutor. 

“Oh, nothing,” replied he; “only I didn’t exactly know 
whereabouts we were till I got up here.” 

“ Whereabouts are we, then? ” 

“ Close to the end of the Ghost’s Walk.” 

“ But you don’t mind that now, surely, Harry? ” 

“No, sir ; that is, not so much as I used.” 

“ Shall I take all this down again, and build our nest some- 
where else ? ” 

“Oh, no, if you don’t think it matters. It would be a great 
pity, after you have taken so much trouble with it. Besides, 
I shall never be here without you ; and I do not think I should 
be afraid of the ghost herself, if you were with me.” 

Yet Harry shuddered involuntarily at the thought of his own 
daring speech. 

“ Very well, Harry, my boy; we will finish it here. Now, 
if you stand there, I will fasten a plank across here between 
these two stumps, — no, that won’t do exactly. I must put a 
piece on to this one, to raise it to a level with the other; 
then we shall have a seat in a few minutes.” 

Hammer and nails were busy again ; and in a few minutes 
they sat down to enjoy the “soft pipling cold,” which swung 
all the leaves about like little trap-doors that opened into the 
Infinite. Harry was highly contented. He drew a deep 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


155 


breath of satisfaction as, looking above and beneath and all 
about him, he saw that they were folded in an almost im- 
penetrable net of foliage, through which nothing could steal 
into their sanctuary, save “the chartered libertine, the air,” 
and a few stray beams of the setting sun, filtering through the 
multitudinous leaves, from which they caught a green tint as 
they passed. 

“Fancy yourself a fish,” said Hugh, “in the depth of a 
cavern of seaweed, which floats about in the slow, swinging 
motion of the heavy waters.” 

“ What a funny notion ! ” 

“ Not so absurd as you may think, Harry ; for just as some 
fishes crawl about on the bottom of the sea, so do we men at 
the bottom of an ocean of air ; which, if it be a thinner one, is 
certainly a deeper one.” 

“ Then the birds are the swimming fishes, are they not? ” 

“ Yes, to be sure.” 

“ And you and I are two mermen — doing what ? Waiting 
for mother mermaid to give us our dinner. I am getting 
hungry. But it will be a long time before a mermaid gets up 
here, I am afraid.” 

“ That reminds me,” said Hugh, “ that I must build a stair 
for you, Master Harry ; for you are not merman enough to get 
up with a stroke of your scaly tail. So here goes. You can 
sit there till I fetch you.” 

Nailing a little rude bracket here and there on the stem of 
the tree, just where Harry could avail himself of hand-hold as 
well, Hugh had soon finished a strangely irregular staircase, 
which it took Harry two or three times’ trying, to learn quite 


156 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

GEOGRAPHY POINT. 


I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the farthest inch of Alia ; bring you tha 
length of Prester John’s foot ; fetch you a hair off the great Cham’s beard ; do you 
any embassage to the Pigmies. — Much Ado about Nothing. 


The next day, after dinner, Mr. Arnold said to the tutor : — 

“ Well, Mr. Sutherland, how does Harry get on with his 
geography ? ” 

Mr. Arnold, be it understood, had a weakness for geography. 

“We have not done anything at that yet, Mr. Arnold.” 

“ Not done anything at geography ! And the boy getting 
quite robust now ! I am astonished, Mr. Sutherland. Why, 
when he was a mere child, he could repeat all the counties of 
England.” 

“ Perhaps that may be the reason for the decided distaste 
he shows for it now, Mr. Arnold. But I will begin to teach 
him at once, if you desire it.” 

“ I do desire it, Mr. Sutherland. A thorough geographical 
knowledge is essential to the education of a gentleman. Ask 
me any question you please, Mr. Sutherland, on the map of 
the world, or any of its divisions.” 

Hugh asked a few questions, which Mr. Arnold answered at 
once. 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! ” said he, “ this is mere child’s play. Let 
me ask you some, Mr. Sutherland.” 

His very first question posed Hugh, whose knowledge in 
this science was not by any means minute. 

“I fear I am no gentleman,” said he, laughing; “but I 
can at least learn as well as teach. We shall begin to- 
morrow.” 

“ What books have you? ” 

“ Oh ! no books, if you please, just yet. If you are satis- 
fied with Harry’s progress so far, let me have my own way in 
this too.” 

“ But geography does not seem your strong point.” 

“No; but I may be able to teach it all the better from 
feeling the difficulties of a learner myself.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


157 


“ Well, you shall have a fair trial.” 

Next morning Hugh and Harry went out for a walk to the 
top of a hill in the neighborhood. When they reached it, 
Hugh took a small compass from his pocket, and set it on the 
ground, contemplating it and the horizon alternately. 

“ What are you doing, Mr. Sutherland ? ” 

I am trying to find the exact line that would go through 
my home,” said he. 

“ Is that funny little thing able to tell you ? ” 

“Yes; this along with other things. Isn’t it curious, 
Harry, to have in my pocket a little thing with a kind of spirit 
in it, that understands the spirit that is in the big world, and 
always points to its North Pole? ” 

“ Explain it to me.” 

“ It is nearly as much a mystery to me as to you.” 

“ Where is the North Pole? ” 

“Look, the little thing points to it.” 

“ But I will turn it away. Oh ! it won’t go. It goes back 
and back, do what I will.” 

“ Yes, it will, if you turn it away all day long. Look, 
Harry, if you were to go straight on in this direction, you 
would come to a Laplander, harnessing his broad-horned rein- 
deer to his sledge. He’s at it now, I dare say. If you were 
to go in this line exactly, you would go through the smoke and 
fire of a burning mountain in a land of ice. If you were to 
go this way, straight on, you would find yourself in the middle 
of a forest with a lion glaring at your feet, for it is dark night 
there now, and so hot ! And over there, straight on, there is 
such a lovely sunset. The top of a snowy mountain is all pink 
with light, though the sun is down — oh, such colors all about, 
like fairyland ! And there, there is a desert of sand, and a 
camel dying, and all his companions just disappearing on the 
horizon. And there, there is an awful sea, without a boat to 
be seen on it, dark and dismal, with huge rocks all about it, 
and waste borders of sand — so dreadful ! ” 

“How do you know all this, Mr. Sutherland? You hava 
never walked along those lines, I know, for you couldn’t/' 

“ Geography has taught me.” 

“ No, Mr. Sutherland ! ” said Harry, incredulously. 


158 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ Well, shall we travel along this line, just across that crown 
of trees on the hill? ” 

“ Yes, do let us.” 

“Then,” said Hugh, drawing a telescope from his pocket, 
u this hill is henceforth Geography Point, and all the world 
lies round about it. Do you know we are in the very middle 
of the earth ? ” 

1 Are we, indeed ? ” 

“ Yes. Don’t you know any point you like to choose on a 
ball is the middle of it ? ” 

“ Oh ! yes — of course.” 

“Very well. What lies at the bottom of the hill down 
there?” 

“ Arnstead, to be sure.” 

“ And what beyond there ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Look through here.” 

“ Oh ! that must be the village we rode to yesterday, — I 
forget the name of it.” 

Hugh told him the name ; and then made him look with the 
telescope all along the receding line to the trees on the opposite 
hill. Just as he caught them, a voice beside them said : — 

“ What are you about, Harry? ” 

Hugh felt a glow of pleasure as the voice fell on his ear. 

It was Euphra’s. 

“ Oh ! ” replied Harry, “ Mr. Sutherland is teaching me 
geography with a telescope. It’s such fun ! ” 

“ He’s a wonderful tutor, that of yours, Harry.” 

“Yes, isn’t he just? But,” Harry went on, turning to 
Hugh, “ what are we to do now ? We can’t get farther for 
that hill.” 

“ Ah ! we must apply to your papa now, to lend us some of 
his beautiful maps. They will teach us what lies beyond that 
hill. And then we can read in some of his books about the 
places ; and so go on and on, till we reach the beautiful, wide, 
restless sea ; over which we must sail, in spite of wind and tide, 
straight on and on, till we come to land again. But we 
must make a great many such journeys before we really know 
what sort of a place we are living in ; and we shall have ever 
so many things to learn that will surprise us.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


159 


“ Oh ! it will be nice ! ” cried Harry. 

After a little more geographical talk, they put up their in- 
struments, and began to descend the hill. Harry was in no 
need of Hugh’s back now, but Euphra was in need of his hand. 
In fact, she spelled for its support. 

“ How awkward of me ! I am stumbling over the heather 
shamefully.” 

She was, in fact, stumbling over her own dress, which she 
would not hold up. Hugh offered his hand ; and her small one 
seemed quite content to be swallowed up in his large one. 

“ Why do you never let me put you on your horse? ” said 
Hugh. “ You always manage to prevent me somehow or 
other. The last time, I just turned my head, and, behold ! 
when I looked, you were gathering your reins.” 

“ It’s only a trick of independence, Hugh — Mr. Sutherland 
— I beg your pardon.” 

I can make no excuse for Euphra, for she had positively 
never heard him called Hugh ; there was no one to do 
so. But the slip had not, therefore, the less effect ; for it 
sounded as if she had been saying his name over and over again 
to herself. 

“ I beg your pardon,” repeated Euphra, hastily ; for, as 
Hugh did not reply, she feared her arrow had swerved from its 
mark. 

“For a sweet fault, Euphra — I beg your pardon — Miss 
Cameron.” 

“ You punish me with forgiveness,” returned she, with one 
of her sweetest looks. 

Hugh could not help pressing the little hand. 

Was the pressure returned? So slight, so airy was the 
touch, that it might have been only the throb of his own pulses, 
all consciously vital about the wonderful woman-hand that 
rested in his. If he had claimed it, she might easily have 
denied it, so ethereal and uncertain was it. Yet he believed 
in it. He never dreamed that she was exercising her skill 
upon him. What could be her object in bewitching a poor 
tutor ? Ah ! what indeed ? 

Meantime this much is certain, that she was drawing Hugh 
closer and closer to her side ; that a soothing dream of delight 
had begun to steal over his spirit, soon to make it toss in 


160 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


feverous unrest, — as the first effects of some poisons are like a 
dawn of tenfold strength. The mountain wind blew from her 
to him, sometimes sweeping her garments about him, and 
bathing him in their faint, sweet odors, — odors which some- 
how seemed to belong to her whom they had only last visited ; 
sometimes, so kindly strong did it blow, compelling her or at 
least giving her excuse enough, to leave his hand and cling 
closely to his arm. A fresh spring began to burst from the 
very bosom of what had seemed before a perfect summer, 
spring to summer ! What would the following summer be f 
Ah ! and what the autumn ? And what the winter ? For if 
the summer be tenfold summer, then must the winter be tenfold 

winter. . . 

But though knowledge is good for man, foreknowledge is 

not so good. 

And, though Love be good, a tempest of it in the brain will 
not ripen the fruits like a soft, steady wind, or waft the ships 

home to their desired haven. 

Perhaps what enslaved Hugh most was the feeling that 
the damsel stooped to him, without knowing that she stooped. 
She seemed to him in every way above him. She knew so 
many things of which he was ignorant ; could say such lovely 
things; could, he did not doubt, write lovely verses ; could 
sing like an angel (though Scotch songs are not of essentially 
angelic strain, nor Italian songs either, in general ; and they 
were all that she could do) ; was mistress of a great, rich, won- 
derful house, with a history ; and, more than all, was, or ap- 
peared to him to be — a beautiful woman. It was true that 
his family was as good as hers ; but he had disowned liis family, 
— so his pride declared ; and the same pride made him despise 
his present position, and look upon a tutor’s employment as — 
as — well, as other people look upon it ; as a rather contempti- 
ble one in fact, especially for a young, powerful, six-foot fellow. 

The influence of Euphrasia was not of the best upon him 
from the first ; for it had greatly increased this feeling about 
his occupation. It could not affect his feelings towards Har- 
ry ; so the boy did not suffer as yet. But it set him upon a 
very unprofitable kind of castle-building : lie would be a soldier 
like his father; he would leave Arnstead, to revisit it with a 
sword by his side, and a Siv before his name. Sir Hugh 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


161 


Sutherland would he somebody even in the eyes of the master 
of Arnstead. Yes, a six-foot fellow, though he may be sensi- 
ble in the main, is not, therefore, free from small vanities, es- 
pecially if he be in love. But how leave Euphra ? ” 

Again I outrun my story. 


CHAPTER XXY. 

ITALIAN. 


Per me si va nella cittA dolente. 

Dante. 

Through me thou goest into the city of grief. 

Of necessity, with so many shafts opened into the mountain 
of knowledge, a far greater amount of time must be devoted 
by Harry and his tutor to the working of the mine than they 
had given hitherto. This made a considerable alteration in 
the intercourse of the youth and the lady ; for, although Eu- 
phra was often present during school-hours, it must be said for 
Hugh that, during those hours, he paid almost all his atten- 
tion to Harry ; so much of it, indeed, that perhaps there was 
not enough left to please the lady. But she did not say so. 
She sat beside them in silence, occupied with her work, and 
saving up her glances for use. Now and then she would read ; 
taking an opportunity sometimes, but not often, when a fit- 
ting pause occurred, to ask him to explain some passage about 
which she was in doubt. It must be conceded that such pas- 
sages were well chosen for the purpose ; for she was too wise 
to°do her own intellect discredit by feigning a difficulty where 
she saw none ; intellect being the only gift in others for which 
she was conscious of any reverence. 

By and by she began to discontinue these visits to the 
school-room. Perhaps she found them dull. Perhaps — but 
we shall see. 

One morning, in the course of their study, — Euphra not 
present — Hugh lud occasion to go from his own room, where 
11 


162 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


for the most part, they carried on the severer portion of their 
labors, down to the library for a book, to enlighten them 
upon some point on which they were in doubt. As he was 
passing an open door Euphra’s voice called him. He entered, 
and found himself in her private sitting-room. He had not 
known before where it was. 

u I beg your pardon, Mr. Sutherland, for calling you, but I 
am at this moment in a difficulty. I cannot manage this line 
in the ‘Inferno.’ Do help me.” 

She moved the book towards him, as he now stood by her 
side, she remaining seated at her table. To his mortification, 
he was compelled to confess his utter ignorance of the lan- 
guage. 

“Oh! I am disappointed,” said Euphra. 

“ Not so much as I am,” replied Hugh. “ But could you 
spare me one or two of your Italian books? ” 

“ With pleasure,” she answered, rising and going to her 
book-shelves. 

“ I wa nt only a grammar, a dictionary, and a New Testa- 
ment.” 

“ There they are,” she said, taking them down one after the 
other and bringing them to him. “ I dare say you will soon 
get up with poor stupid me.” 

“I shall do my best to get within hearing of your voice 
at least, in which Italian must be lovely.” 

No reply, but a sudden droop of the head. 

“But,” continued Hugh, “upon second thoughts, lest I 
should be compelled to remain dumb, or else annoy your deli- 
cate ear with discordant sounds, just give me one lesson in the 
pronunciation. Let me hear you read a little first.” 

“With all my heart.” 

Euphra began, and read delightfully ; for she was an excel- 
lent Italian scholar. It was necessary that Hugh should look 
over the book. This was difficult while he remained standing, 
as she did not offer to lift it from the table. Gradually, there- 
fore, and hardly knowing how, he settled into a chair by her 
side. Half an hour went by like a minute, as he listened to 
the silvery tones of her voice, breaking into a bell-like sound 
upon the double consonants of that sweet lady-tongue. Then 
it was his turn to read and be corrected, and read again and 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


163 


be again corrected. Another half-hour glided away, and yet 
another. But it must be confessed he made good use of the 
time — if only it had been his own to use ; for at the end of it 
he could pronounce Italian very tolerably, — well enough, at 
least, to keep him from fixing errors in his pronunciation, 
while studying the language alone. Suddenly he came to 
himself, and looked up as from a dream. Had she been be- 
witching him ? He was in Euphra’s room — alone with her. 
And the door was shut — how or when ? And — he looked 
at his watch — poor little Harry had been waiting bis return 
from the library for the last hour and a half. He was con- 
science-stricken. He gathered up the books hastily, thanked 
Euphra in the same hurried manner, and left the room with 
considerable disquietude, closing the door very gently, almost 
guiltily, behind him. 

I am afraid Euphra had been perfectly aware that he knew 
nothing about Italian. Did she see her own eyes shine in the 
mirror before her, as he closed the door ? Was she in love 
with him, then? 

When Hugh returned with the Italian books, instead of the 
encyclopaedia he had gone to seek, he found Harry sitting 
where he had left him, with his arms and head on the table, 
fast asleep. 

“ Poor boy ! ” said Hugh to himself; but he could not help 
feeling glad he was asleep. He stole out of the room again, 
passed the fatal door with a longing pain, found the volume of 
his quest in the library, and, returning with it, sat down be- 
side Harry. There he sat till he awoke. 

When he did awake at last, it was almost time for luncheon. 

The shamefaced boy was exceedingly penitent for what was 
no fault, while Hugh could not relieve him by confessing his. 
He could only say : — 

“ It was my fault, Harry dear. I stayed away too long. 
You were so nicely asleep I would not wake you. You will 
not need a siesta, that is all. ,, 

He was ashamed of himself, as he uttered the false words to 
the true-hearted child. But this, alas ! was not the end of it 
all. 

Desirous of learning the language, but far more desirous of 
commenling himself to Euphra, Hugh began in downright 


164 


DAVID ELG . irBROD. 


earnest. That very evening, he felt that he had a little hold 
of the language. Harry was left to his own resources. Nor 
was there any harm in this in itself. Hugh had a right to part 
of every day for his own uses. But then, he had been with 
Harry almost every evening, or a great part of it, and the boy 
missed him much ; for he was not yet self-dependent. He 
would have gone to Euphrasia, but somehow she happened to 
be engaged that evening. So he took refuge in the library, 
where, in the desolation of his spirit, “ Polexander ” began, 
almost immediately, to exercise its old dreary fascination upon 
him. Although he had not opened the hook since Hugh had 
requested him to put it away, yet he had not given up the in- 
tention of finishing it some day ; and now he took it down, and 
opened it listlessly, with the intention of doing something 
towards the gradual redeeming of the pledge he had given to 
himself. But he found it more irksome than ever. Still he 
read on ; till at length he could discover no meaning at all in 
the sentences. Then he began to doubt whether he had read 
the words. He fixed his attention by main force on every in- 
dividual word ; but even then he began to doubt whether he 
could say he had read the words, for he might have missed 
seeing some of the letters composing each word. He grew so 
nervous and miserable over it, almost counting every letter, 
that at last he burst into tears, and threw the book down. 

His intellect, which in itself was excellent, was quite of the 
parasitic order, requiring to wind itself about a stronger intel- 
lect, to keep itself in the region of fresh air and possible 
growth. Left to itself, its weak stem could not raise it above 
the ground; it would grow and mass upon the earth, till it 
decayed and corrupted, for lack of room, light, and air. But, 
of course, there was no danger in the mean time. This was but 
the passing sadness of an occasional loneliness. 

He crept to Hugh’s room, and received an invitation to enter, 
in answer to his gentle knock ; but Hugh was so absorbed in 
his new study, that he hardly took any notice of him, and 
Harry found it almost as dreary here as in the study. He 
would have gone out, but a drizzling rain was falling ; and he 
6hrank into himself at the thought of the Ghost’s Walk. The 
dinner-bell was a welcome summons. 

Hugh, inspirited by the reaction from close attention, ty the 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


165 


presence of Euphra, and by the desire to make himself generally 
agreeable, which sprung from the consciousness of having done 
wrong, talked almost brilliantly, delighting Euphra, over- 
coming Harry with reverent astonishment, and even interesting 
slow Mr. Arnold. With the latter Hugh had been gradually 
becoming a favorite ; partly because he had discovered in him 
what he considered high-minded sentiments ; for, however stupid 
and conventional Mr. Arnold might be, he had a foundation of 
sterling worthiness of character. Euphra, instead of showing 
any jealousy of this growing friendliness, favored in every way 
in her power, and now and then alluded to it in her conversa- 
tions with Hugh, as affording her great satisfaction. 

“Iamso glad he likes you!” she would say. 

‘ ‘Why should she be glad? ” thought Hugh. 

This gentle claim of a kind of property in him added con- 
siderably to the strength of the attraction that drew him 
towards her, as towards the centre of his spiritual gravitation ; 
if indeed that could be called spiritual which had so little of 
the element of moral or spiritual admiration, or even approval, 
mingled with it. He never felt that Euphra was good. He 
only felt that she drew him with a vague force of feminine 
sovereignty, — a charm which he could no more resist or ex- 
plain, than the iron could the attraction of the loadstone. 
Neither could he have said, had he really considered the 
matter, that she was beautiful — only that she often, very often, 
looked beautiful. I suspect if she had been rather ugly, it 
would have been all the same to Hugh. 

He pursued his Italian studies with a singleness of aim and 
effort that carried him on rapidly. He asked no assistance 
from Euphra, and said nothing to her about his progress. But 
he was so absorbed in it, that it drew him still further from his 
pupil. Of course he went out with him, walking or riding 
every day that the weather would permit ; and he had regular 
school-hours with him within doors. But during the latter, 
while Harry was doing something on his slate, or writing, or 
learning some lesson (which kind of work happened oftener 
now than he could have approved of), he would take up his 
Italian ; and, notwithstanding Harry’s quiet hints that he had 
finished what had been set him, remain buried in it for a long 
time. When he woke at last to the necessity of taking soma 


m 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


notice of the boy, he would only appoint him something else ta 
occupy him again, so as to leave himself free to follow his new 
bent. Now and then he would become aware of liis blamable 
neglect, and make a feeble struggle to rectify what seemed to 
be growing into a habit, and one of the worst for a tutor; but 
he gradually sank back into the mire, for mire it was, comforting 
himself with the resolution that as soon as he was able to read 
Italian without absolutely spelling his way, he would let 
Euphra see what progress he had made, and then return with 
renewed energy to Harry’s education, keeping up his own new 
accomplishment by more moderate exercise therein. It must 
not be supposed, however, that a long course of time passed in 
this way. At the end of a fortnight he thought he might 
venture to request Euphra to show him the passage which had 
perplexed her. This time he knew where she was, — in her 
own room ; for his mind had begun to haunt her whereabouts. 
He knocked at her door, heard the silvery, thrilling, happy 
sound, “ Come in,” and entered trembling. 

11 Would you show me the passage in Dante that perplexed 
you the other day ?” 

Euphra looked a little surprised; but got the book and 
pointed it out at once. 

Hugh glanced at it. His superior acquaintance with the 
general forms of language enabled him, after finding two words 
in Euphra’s larger dictionary, to explain it, to her immediate 
satisfaction. 

“You astonish me,” said Euphra. 

“ Latin gives me an advantage, you see,” said Hugh, 
modestly. 

“Its seems to me very wonderful, nevertheless.” 

These were sweet sounds to Hugh’s ear. He had gained his 
end. And she hers. 

“ Well,” she said, “ I have just come upcu another passage 
that perplexes me not a little. Will you try your powers 
upon that for me?” 

So saying, she proceeded to find it. 

“It is school-time,” said Hugh, “1 fear I must not wait 
now.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! Don’t make a pedagogue of yourself. You 
know you are here more as a guardian — big brother, you 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


167 


know — to the dear child. By the way, I am rather afraid 
you are working him a little more than his constitution will 
stand.” 

“ Do you think so? ” returned Hugh, quite willing to be 
convinced. 1 1 1 should be very sorry/’ 

“This is the passage,” said Euphra. 

Hugh sat down once more at the table beside her. He 
found this morsel considerably tougher than the last. But at 
length he succeeded in pulling it to pieces and reconstructing 
it in a simpler form for the lady. She was full of thanks and 
admiration. Naturally enough, they went on to the next line, 
and the next stanza, and the next, and the next ; till — shall I 
be believed ? — they had read a whole canto of the poem. 
Euphra knew more words by a great many than Hugh; so 
that, what with her knowledge of the words, and his insight 
into the construction, they made rare progress. 

“ What a beautiful passage it is ! ” said Euphra. 

1 1 It is indeed,” responded Hugh ; “I never read anything 
more beautiful.” 

“ I wonder if it would be possible to turn that into English. 
I should like to try.” 

“ You mean verse, of course ?” 

“ To be sure.” 

“ Let us try, then. I will bring you mine when I have 
finished it. I fear it will take some time, though, to do it well. 
Shall it be in blank verse, or what ? ” 

“ Oh ! don’t you think we had better keep the Terza Birna 
of the original ? ” 

“ As you please. It will add much to the difficulty.” 

“Recreant knight! will you shrink from following where 
your lady leads? ” 

“ Never ! so help me, my good pen ! ” answered Hugh, and 
took his departure, with burning cheeks and a trembling at the 
heart. Alas ! the morning was gone. Harry was not in his 
«*tudy. He sought and found him in the library, apparently 
buried in “ Polexander.” 

“I am so glad your are come,” said Harry; “I am so 
tired.” 


168 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“Tut! tut! nonsense ! Put it away,” said Hugh, his dis- 
satisfaction with himself making him cross with Harry, who 
felt, in consequence, ten times more desolate than before. He 
could not understand the change. 

If i ‘ went ill before with the hours devoted to common 
labor, it went worse now. Hugh seized every gap of time, 
and widened its margins shamefully, in order to work at his 
translation. He found it very difficult to render the Italian in 
classical and poetic English. The three rhyming words, and 
the mode in which the stanzas are looped together, added 
greatly to the difficulty. Blank verse he would have found 
quite easy compared to this. But he would not blench. The 
thought of her praise, and of the yet better favor he might 
gain, spurred him on ; and Harry was the sacrifice. But he 
would make it all up to him, when this was once over. In- 
deed he would. 

Thus he baked cakes of clay to choke the barking of 
Cerberean conscience. But it would growl notwithstanding. 

The boy’s spirit was sinking ; but Hugh did not or would not 
see it. His step grew less elastic. He became more listless, 
more like his former self, — sauntering about with his hands in 
his pockets. And Hugh, of course, found himself caring less 
about him ; for the thought of him, rousing as it did the sense 
of his own neglect, had become troublesome. Sometimes he 
even passed poor Harry without speaking to him. 

Gradually, however, he grew still further into the favor of 
Mr. Arnold, until he seemed to have even acquired some in- 
fluence with him. Mr. Arnold would go out riding with them 
himself sometimes, and express great satisfaction, not only with 
the way Harry sat his pony, for which he accorded Hugh the 
credit due to him, but with the way in which Hugh managed 
his own horse as well. Mr. Arnold was a good horseman, and 
his praise was especially grateful to Hugh, because Euphra 
was always near, and always heard it. I fear, however, that his 
progress in the good graces of Mr. Arnold was, in a considerable 
degree, the result of the greater anxiety to please, which 
sprung from the consciousness of not deserving approbation. 
Pleasing was an easy substitute for well-doing. Not acceptable 
to himself, he had the greater desire to be acceptable to others ; 
and so reflect the side-beams of a false approbation on himself 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


169 


— * who needed true light and would be ill-provided for with 
any substitute. For a man who is received as a millionnaire 
can hardly help feeling like one at times, even if he knows he 
has overdrawn his banker’s account. The necessity to Hugh’s 
nature of feeling right drove him to this false mode of pro- 
ducing the false impression. If one only wants to feel virtuous, 
there are several royal roads to that end. But, fortunately, 
the end itself would be unsatisfactory if gained ; while not one 
of these roads does more than pretend to lead even to that land 
of delusion. 

The reaction in Hugh’s mind was sometimes torturing 
enough. But he had not strength to resist Euphra, and so 
reform. 

Well or ill done, at length his translation was finished. So 
was Euphra’s. They exchanged papers for a private reading 
first ; and arranged to meet afterwards, in order to compare 
criticisms. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE FIRST MIDNIGHT. 


Well, if anything be damned, 

It will be twelve o'clock at night ; that twelve 
Will never scape. 

Cyril Tourneur. — The Revengers Tragedy. 

Letters arrived at Arnstead generally while the family was 
seated at breakfast. One morning, the post-bag having been 
brought in, Mr. Arnold opened it himself, according to his un- 
varying custom ; and found, amongst other letters, one in an 
old-fashioned female hand, which, after reading it, he passed to 
Euphra. 

u You remember Mrs. Elton, Euphra? 99 

u Quite well, uncle, — a dear old lady ! 99 

But the expression which passed across her face rather 
belied her words, and seemed to Hugh to mean, “I hope she 
is not going to bore us again.” 


170 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


She took care, however, to show no sign with regard to tha 
contents of the letter ; but, laying it beside her on the table, 
waited to hear her uncle’s mind first. 

“ Poor, dear girl ! ” said he at last. “ You must try to 
make her as comfortable as you can. There is consumption in 
the family, you see,” he added, with a meditative sigh. 

u Of course I will, uncle. Poor girl ! I hope there is not 
much amiss though, after all.” 

But, as she spoke, an irrepressible flash of dislike, or dis- 
pleasure of some sort, broke from her eyes, and vanished. No 
one but himself seemed to Hugh to have observed it ; but he 
was learned in the lady’s eyes, and their weather-signs. Mr. 
Arnold rose from the table and left the room, apparently to 
write an answer to the letter. As soon as he was gone, Euphra 
gave the letter to Hugh. He read as follows : — 

“ My dear Mr. Arnold : Will you extend the hospitality of your 
beautiful house to me and my young friend, who has the honor of being 
your relative, Lady Emily Lake ? For some time her health has seemed 
to be failing, and she is ordered to spend the winter abroad, at Pau, or 
somewhere in the South of France. It is considered highly desirable 
that in the mean time she should have as much change as possible ; and 
it occurred to me, remembering the charming month I passed at your 
seat, and recalling the fact that Lady Emily is cousin only once removed 
to your late most lovely wife, that there would be no impropriety in 
writing to ask you whether you could, without inconvenience, receive 
us as your guests for a short time. I say us ; for the dear girl has taken 
such a fancy to unworthy old me, that she almost refuses to set out 
without me. Not to be cumbersome either to our friends or ourselves, 
we shall bring only our two maids, and a steady old man-servant, 
who has been in my family for many years. I trust you will not 
hesitate to refuse my request, 'hould I happen to have made it at an 
unsuitable season ; assured, as you must be, that we cannot attribute 
the refusal to any lack of hospitality or friendliness on your part. At 
all events, I trust you will excuse what seems — now I have committed 
it to paper — a great liberty, I hope not presumption, on mine. I am, 
my dear Mr. Arnold, 

“Yours most sincerely, 

“ Hannah Elton.’ 


Hugh refolded the letter, and laid it down without remark. 
Harry had left the room. 

“ Isn’t it a bore? ” said Euphra. 

Hugh answered only by a look. A pause followed. 

“ Who is Mrs. Elton ? ” he said at last. 

“ Oh, a good-hearted creature enough. Frightfully prosy.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


171 


“ But that is a well-written letter? ” 

“ Oh, yes. She is famed for her letter-writing ; and, I 
believe, practises every morning on a slate. It is the only 
thing that redeems her from absolute stupidity.” 

Euphra, with her taper forefinger, tapped the tablecloth 
impatiently, and shifted back in her chair, as if struggling 
with an inward annoyance. 

“ And what sort of person is Lady Emily ? ” asked Hugh. 

“ I have never seen her. Some blue-eyed milkmaid with 
a title, I suppose. And in a consumption too ! I presume 
the dear girl is as religious as the old one. Good heavens 1 
what shall we do ? ” she burst out at length ; and, rising from 
her chair, she paced about the room hurriedly, but all the 
time with a gliding kind of footfall, that would have shaken 
none but the craziest floor. 

“Dear Euphra!” Hugh ventured to say, “never mind. 
Let us try to make the best of it.” 

She stopped in her walk, turned towards him, smiled as if 
ashamed and delighted at the same moment, and slid out of the 
room. Had Euphra been the same all through, she could 
hardly have smiled so without being in love with Hugh. 

That morning he sought her again in her room. They 
talked over their versions of Dante. Hugh’s was certainly 
the best, for he was more practised in such things than 
Euphra. He showed her many faults, which she at once per- 
ceived to be faults, and so rose in his estimation. But at the 
same time there were individual lines and passages of hers, 
which he considered not merely better than the corresponding 
lines and passages, but better than any part of his version. 
This he was delighted to say ; and she seemed as delighted 
that he should think so. A great part of the morning was 
spent thus. 

“ I cannot stay longer,” said Hugh. 

“ Let us read for an hour, then, after we come upstairs to- 
night.” 

“ With more pleasure than I dare to say.” 

“ But you mean what you do say? ” 

“You can doubt it no more than myself.” 

Yet he did not like Euphra’s making the proposal. No 
more did he like the flippant, almost cruel way in which she 


172 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


referred to Lady Emily’s illness. But he put it down tc an* 
noyance and haste ; got over it somehow — anyhow ; and be- 
gan to feel that if she were a devil he could not help loving 
her, and would not help it if he could. The hope of meeting 
her alone that night gave him spirit and energy with Harry ; 
and the poor boy was more cheery and active than he had 
been for some time. He thought his big brother was going 
to love him again as at the first. Hugh’s treatment of his pu- 
pil might still have seemed kind from another, but Harry felt 
it a great change in him. 

In the course of the day Euphra took an opportunity of 
whispering to him : — 

“Not in my room — in the library.’’ I presume she 
thought it would be more prudent, in the case of any interrup- 
tion. 

After dinner that evening Hugh did not go to the drawing- 
room with Mr. Arnold, but out into the woods about the house. 

It was early in the twilight ; for now the sun set late. The 
month was June; and even a rich, dreamful, rosy even, — the 
sleep of a gorgeous day. “ It was like the soul of a gracious 
woman,” thought Hugh, charmed into a lucid interval of pas- 
sion by the loveliness of the nature around him. Strange to tell, 
at that moment, instead of the hushed gloom of the library, 
towards which he was hoping and leaning in his soul, there 
arose before him the bare, stern, leafless pine-wood, — for who 
can call its foliage leaves ? — with the chilly wind of a north- 
ern spring morning blowing through it with a wailing noise of 
waters ; and beneath a weird fir-tree, lofty, gaunt, and huge, 
with bare goblin arms, contorted sweepily, in a strange ming- 
ling of the sublime and the grotesque, — beneath this fir-tree, 
Margaret sitting on one of its twisted roots, the very image of 
peace, with a face that seemed stilled by the unexpected ap- 
proach of a sacred and unknown gladness, — a face that would 
blossom the more gloriously because its joy delayed its com- 
ing. And above it, the tree shone a “ still,” almost “ awful 
red,” in the level light of the morning. 

The vision came and passed, for he did not invite its stay ; 
it rebuked him to the deepest soul. He strayed in troubled 
pleasure, restless and dissatisfied. Woods of the richest 
growth were around him ; heaps on heaps of leaves floating 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


173 


above him like clouds, a trackless wilderness of airy green, 
wherein one might wish to dwell forever, looking down into 
the vaults and aisles of the long-ranging boles beneath. But 
no peace could rest on his face ; only, at best, a false mask, 
put on to hide the trouble of the unresting heart. Had he 
been doing his duty to Harry, his love for Euphra, however 
unworthy she might be, would not have troubled him thus. 

He came upon an avenue. At the further end the boughs 
of the old trees, bare of leaves beneath, met in a perfect pointed 
arch, across which were barred the lingering colors of the 
sunset, transforming the whole into a rich window full of 
stained glass and complex tracery, closing up a Gothic aisle 
in a temple of everlasting worship. A kind of holy calm fell 
upon him as he regarded the dim, dying colors ; and the spirit 
of the night, a something that is neither silence nor sound, 
and yet is like both, sank into his soul, and made a moment 
of summer twilight there. He walked along the avenue for 
some distance; and then, leaving it, passed on through the 
woods. Suddenly it flashed upon him that he had crossed the 
Ghost’s Walk. A slight but cold shudder passed through the 
region of his heart. Then he laughed at himself, and, as ii 
were in despite of his own tremor, turned, and crossed yei 
again the path of the ghost. 

A spiritual epicure in his pleasures, he would not spoil the 
effect of the coming meeting, by seeing Euphra in the drawing- 
room first ; he went to his own study, where he remained till 
the hour had nearly arrived. He tried to write some verses. 
But he found that, although the lovely form of its own Naiad lay 
on the brink of the Well of Song, its waters would not flow : 
during the sirocco of passion, its springs withdraw into the 
cool caves of the Life beneath. At length he rose, too much 
preoccupied to mind his want of success; and, going down 
the back stair, reached the library. There he seated himself, 
and tried to read by the light of his chamber-candle. But it 
was scarcely even an attempt, for every moment he was look- 
ing up to the door by which he expected her to enter. 

Suddenly an increase of light warned him that she was in 
the room. How she had entered he could not tell. One 
hand carried her candle, the ligh t of which fell on her pale 
face, with its halo of black ies3 , her hair, which looked like 


174 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


a well of darkness, that threatened to break from its bonds and 
overflood the room with a second night, dark enough to blot 
out that which was now looking in, treeful and deep, at the 
uncurtained windows. The other hand was busy trying to in- 
carcerate a stray tress which had escaped from its net, and 
made her olive shoulders look white beside it. 

“ Let it alone,” said Hugh ; “ let it be beautiful.” 

But she gently repelled the hand he raised to hers, and, 
though she was forced to put down her candle first, persisted 
in confining the refractory tress ; then seated herself at the 
table, and taking from her pocket the manuscript which Hugh 
had been criticising in the morning, unfolded it, and showed 
him all the passages he had objected to neatly corrected or al- 
tered. It was wonderfully done for the time she had had. 
He went over it all with her again, seated close to her, their 
faces almost meeting as they followed the lines. They had 
just finished it, and were about to commence reading from the 
original, when Hugh, who missed a sheet of Euphra’s trans- 
lation, stooped under the table to look for it. A few moments 
were spent in search, before he discovered that Euphra’s foot 
was upon it. He begged her to move a little, but received no 
reply either by word or act. Looking up in some alarm, he 
saw that she was either asleep or in a faint. By an impulse 
inexplicable to himself at the time, he went at once to the 
windows, and drew down the green blinds. When he turned 
towards her again, she was reviving or awaking, he could not 
tell which. 

“ How stupid of me to go to sleep ! ” she said. u Let us 
go on with our reading.” 

They had read for about half an hour, when three taps upon 
one of the windows, slight, but peculiar, and as if given with 
the point of a finger, suddenly startled them. Hugh turned 
at once towards the windows ; but, of course, he could see 
nothing, having just lowered the blinds. He turned again 
towards Euphra. She had a strange, wild look ; her lips were 
slightly parted, and her nostrils wide ; her face was rigid, and 
glimmering pale as death from the cloud of her black hair. 

“ What was it ? ” said Hugh, affected by her fear with the 
horror of the unknown. But she made no answer, and con- 
tinued staring towards one of the windows. He rose and was 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


175 


about to advance to it. when she caught him by the hand with 
a grasp of which hers would have been incapable except under 
the influence of terror. At that moment a clock in the room 
began to strike. It was a slow clock, and went on deliberate- 
ly, striking one . . . two . . . three . . . till it had struck 
twelve. Every stroke was a blow from the hammer of fear, 
and his heart was the bell. He could not breathe for dread so 
long as the awful clock was striking. When it had ended, 
they looked at each other again, and Hugh breathed once. 

“Euphra ! ” he sighed. 

But she made no answer ; she turned her eyes again to one 
of the windows. They were both standing. He sought to 
draw her to him, but she yielded no more than a marble statue. 

“I crossed the Ghost’s Walk to-night,” said he, in a hard 
whisper, scarcely knowing that he uttered it, till he heard his 
own words. They seemed to fall upon his ear as if spoken by 
some one outside the room. She looked at him once more, and 
kept looking with a fixed stare. Gradually her face became 
less rigid, and her eyes les3 wild. She could move at last. 

“ Come, come,” she said, in a hurried whisper. “ Let us 
go — no, no, not that way ; ” — as Hugh would have led her 
towards the private stair, — “let us go the front way, by the 
oak staircase.” 

They went up together. When they reached the door of 
her room, she said, “ Good-night,” without even looking at 
him, and passed in. Hugh went on, in a state of utter be- 
wilderment, to his own apartment; shut the door and locked 
it, — a thing he had never done before ; lighted both the 
candles on his table ; and then walked up and down the room, 
trying, like one aware that he is dreaming, to come to his real 
self. 

“ Pshaw ! ” he said at last. “It was only a little bird, or 
a large moth. How odd it is that darkness can make a fool of 
one ! I am ashamed of myself. I wish I had gone out at the 
window, if only to show Euphra I was not afraid, though of 
course there was nothing to be seen.” 

As he said this in his mind, — he could not have spoken it 
aloud, for fear of hearing his ow T n voice in the solitude, — he 
went to one of the windows of his sitting-room, which was 
nearly over the library, and looked into the wood. Could it 


176 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


be? — Yes, — he did see something white, gliding through 
the wood, away in the direction of the Ghost’s Walk. It 
vanished ; and he saw it no more. 

The morning was far advanced before he could go to bed. 
When the first light of the aurora broke the sky, he looked out 
again; and the first glimmerings of the morning in the 
wood were more dreadful than the deepest darkness of the past 
night. Possessed 'by a new horror, he thought how awful it 
would be to see a belated ghost, hurrying away in helpless 
haste. The spectre would be yet more terrible in the gray 
light of the coming day, and the azure breezes of the morning, 
which to it would be like a new and more fearful death, than 
amidst its own homely, sepulchral darkness ; while the silence 
all around — silence in light — could befit only that dread 
season of loneliness when men are lost in sleep, and ghosts, if 
they walk at all, walk in dismay. 

But at length fear yielded to sleep, though still he troubled 
her short reign. 

When he awoke, he found it so late, that it was all he could 
do to get down in time for breakfast. But so anxious was he 
not to be later than usual, that he was in the room before Mr. 
Arnold made his appearance. Euphra, however, was there be- 
fore him. She greeted him in the usual way, quite circum- 
spectly. But she looked troubled. Her face was very pale, 
and her eyes were red, as if from sleeplessness or weeping. 
When her uncle entered, she addressed him with more gayety 
than usual, and he did not perceive that anything was amis3 
with her. But the whole of that day she walked as in a 
reverie, avoiding Hugh two or three times that they chanced to 
meet without a third person in the neighborhood. Once in 
the forenoon — when she was generally to be found in her 
room — he could not refrain from trying to see her. The 
change and the mystery were insupportable to him. But 
when he tapped at her door, no answer came ; and he walked 
back to Harry, feeling as if, by an unknown door in his own 
soul, he had been shut out of the half of his being. Or, rather, 
a wall seemed to have been built right before his eyes, 
which still was there wherever he went. 

As to the gliding phantom of the previous night, the day 
denied it all, telling him it was but the coinage of his own 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


177 


overwrought brain, weakened by prolonged tension of the 
intellect, and excited by the presence of Euphra at an hour 
claimed by phantoms when not yielded to sleep. This was the 
easiest and most natural way of disposing of the difficulty. 
The cloud around Euphra hid the ghost in its skirts. 

Although fear in some measure returned with the returning 
shadows, he yet resolved to try to get Euphra to meet him 
again in the library that night. But she never gave him a 
chance of even dropping a hint to that purpose. She had not 
gone out with them in the morning ; and when he followed her 
into the drawing-room she was already at the piano. He 
thought he might convey his wish without interrupting the 
music ; but as often as he approached her she broke, or rather 
glided, out into song, as if she had been singing in an under- 
tone all the while. He could not help seeing she did not 
intend to let him speak to her. But, all the time, whatever 
she sang was something she knew he liked ; and as often as she 
spoke to him in the hearing of her uncle or cousin, it was in a 
manner peculiarly graceful and simple. 

He could not understand her ; and was more bewitched, 
more fascinated than ever, by seeing her through the folds of the 
incomprehensible, in which element she had wrapped herself 
from his nearer vision. She had always seemed above him ; 
now she seemed miles away as well; a region of Paradise into 
which he was forbidden to enter. Everything about her, to 
her handkerchief and her gloves, was haunted by a vague 
mystery of worshipfulness, and drew him towards it with 
wonder and trembling. When they parted for the night, she 
shook hands with him with a cool frankness that put him 
nearly beside himself with despair; and when he found himself 
in his own room, it was some time before he could collect his 
thoughts. Having succeeded, however, he resolved, in spite 
of growing fears, to go to the library, and see whether it were 
not possible she might be there. He took up a candle, and 
went down the back stair. But when he opened the library 
door, a gust of wind blew his candle out; all was darkness 
within. A sudden horror seized him; and, afraid of yielding to 
the inclination to bound up the stair, lest he should go wild 
with the terror of pursuit, he crept slowly back, feeling his way 
to his own room with a determined deliberateness. Could th© 
12 


178 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


library window have been left open? Else whence the gust 

of wind ? . . , , 

Next day, and the next, and the next, he fared no better ; 
her behavior continued the same ; and she allowed him no 
opportunity of requesting an explanation. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A SUNDAY. 


A man may bo a heretic in the truth; and if he believe things only because his 
castor says so, or the assembly so determines, without knowing other reason, 
though his belief be true, yet the very truth he holds becomes his heresy. — 
Milton. — Areopagitica. 


At length the expected visitors arrived. Hugh saw noth- 
ing of them till they assembled for dinner. Mrs. Elton was a 
benevolent old lady, — not old enough to give in to being old, 

rather tall, and rather stout, in rich widow-costume, whose 

depth had been moderated by time. Her kindly gray eyes 
looked out from a calm face, which seemed to have taken com- 
fort from loving everybody in a mild and moderate fashion. 
Lady Emily was a slender girl, rather shy, with fair hair, and 
a pale, innocent face. She wore a violet dress, which put out 
her blue eyes. She showed to no advantage beside the sup- 
pressed glow of life which made Euphra look like a tropical 
twilight. I am aware there is no such thing, but, if there 
were, it would be just like her. 

Mrs. Elton seemed to have concentrated the motherhood of 
her nature, which was her most prominent characteristic, not- 
withstanding — or perhaps in virtue of — her childlessness, 
upon Lady Emily. To her Mrs. Elton was solicitously atten- 
tive ; and she, on her part, received it all sweetly and grate- 
ful^ taking no umbrage at being treated as more of an 
invalid than she was. 

Lady Emily ate nothing but chicken, and custard-pudding 
or rice, all the time she was at Arnstead. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


179 


The richer and more seasoned any dish, the more grateful 
it was to Euphra. 

Mr. Arnold was a saddle-of-mutton man. 

Hugh preferred roast beef, but ate anything. 

“ What sort of a clergyman have you now, Mr. Arnold? ” 
asked Mrs. Elton, at the dinner-table. 

“ Oh ! a very respectable young gentleman, brother to Sir 
Richard, who has the gift, you know. A very moderate, ex- 
cellent clergyman he makes too ! ” 

“ Ah ! but you know, Lady Emily and I” — here she 
looked at Lady Emily, who smiled and blushed faintly — “ are 
very dependent on our Sundays, and — ” 

“ We all go to church regularly, I assure you, Mrs. Elton ; 
and of course my carriage shall be always at your disposal.” 

“ I was in no doubt about either of those things, indeed, Mr. 
Arnold. But what sort of a preacher is he ? ” 

“ Ah, well ! let me see. What was the subject of his ser- 
mon last Sunday, Euphra, my dear? ” 

“ The devil and all his angels,” answered Euphra. with a 
wicked flash in her eyes. 

“Yes, yes; so it was. Oh, I assure you, Mrs. Elton, he is 
quite a respectable preacher, as well as a clergyman. He is 
an honor to the cloth.” 

Hugh could not help thinking that the tailor should have 
his due, and that Mr. Arnold gave it him. 

“He is no Puseyite either,” added Mr. Arnold, seeing but 
not understanding Mrs. Elton’s baffled expression, “ though he 
does preach once a month in his surplice.” 

“ I am afraid you will not find him very original though,” 
eaid Hugh, wishing to help the old lady. 

“ Original ! ” interposed Mr. Arnold. “ Really, I am bound 
to say I don’t know how the remark applies. How is a man 
to be original on a subject that is all laid down in plain print, 

to use a vulgar expression, — and has been commented upon 

for eighteen hundred years and more? ” 

“Very true, Mr. Arnold,” responded Mrs. Elton. “We 
don’t want originality, do we ? It is only the gospel we want. 
Does he preach the gospel ? 71 

“ How can he preach anything else? His text is always 
®ut of some part of the Bible.” 


180 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“I am glad to see you hold by the inspiration of the Scrip- 
tures, Mr. Arnold,” said Mrs. Elton, chaotically bewildered. 

“ Good heavens! Madam, what do you mean? Could you 
for a moment suppose me to be an atheist ? Surely you have 
not become a student of German Neology? ” And Mr. Arnold 
smiled a* grim smile. 

“Not I, indeed!” protested poor Mrs. Elton, moving un- 
easily in her seat. “ I quite agree with you, Mr. Arnold.” 

“Then you may take my word for it, that you will hear 
nothing but what is highly orthodox, and perfectly worthy of 
a gentleman and a clergyman, from the pulpit of Mr. Penfold. 
He dined with us only last week.” 

This last assertion was made in an injured tone, just suffi- 
cient to curl the tail of the sentence. After which, what was 
to be said? 

Several vain attempts followed, before a new subject was 
started, sufficiently uninteresting to cause, neither from 
warmth nor stupidity, any damage of dissension, and quite 
worthy of being here omitted. 

Dinner over, and the ceremony of tea — in Lady Emily’s 
case, milk and water — having been observed, the visitors 
withdrew. 

The next day was Sunday. Lady Emily came downstairs 
in black, which suited her better. She was a pretty, gentle 
creature, interesting from her illness, and good because she 
knew no evil, except what she heard of from the pulpit. They 
walked to church, which was no great distance, along a 
meadow-path paved with flags, some of them worn through by 
the heavy shoes of country generations. The church was one 
of those which are, in some measure, typical of the Church 
itself ; for it was very old, and would have been very beauti- 
ful, had it not been all plastered over, and whitened to a 
smooth uniformity of ugliness, — the attempt having been more 
successful in the case of the type. The open roof had had a 
French heaven added to it, — I mean a ceiling; and the pil- 
lars, which, even if they were not carved — though it was im- 
possible to come to a conclusion on that point — must yet have 
been worn into the beauty of age, had been filled up, and 
stained with yellow ochre. Even the remnants of stained glass 
in some of the windows were half concealed by modern appli- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


181 


ances for the partial exclusion of the light. The church had 
fared as Chaucer in the hands of Dryden. So had the truth, 
that flickered through the sermon, fared in the hands of the 
clergyman, or of the sermon-wright whose manuscript he had 
bought for eighteen pence — I am told that sermons are to be 
procured at that price — on his last visit to London. Having, 
although a Scotchman, had an Episcopalian education, Hugh 
could not holp rejoicing that not merely the Bible, but the 
church-sei 7ice as well, had been fixed beyond the reach of 
such degenerating influences as those which had operated on 
the more material embodiments of religion; for otherwise such 
would certainly have been the first to operate, and would have 
found the greatest scope in any alteration. We may hope that 
nothing but a true growth in such religion as needs and seeks 
new expression for new depth and breadth of feeling, will ever 
be permitted to lay the hand of change upon it, — a hand, 
otherwise, of desecration and ruin. 

The sermon was chiefly occupied with proving that God k 
no respecter of persons; a mark of indubitable condescension in 
the clergyman, the rank in society which he could claim for 
himself duly considered. But, unfortunately, the church was 
so constructed that its area contained three platforms of posi- 
tion, actually of differing level ; the loftiest, in the chancel, on 
the right hand of the pulpit, occupied by the gentry ; the middle, 
opposite the pulpit, occupied by the tulip-beds of their ser- 
vants ; and the third, on the left of the pulpit, occupied by the 
common parishioners. Unfortunately, too, by the perpetua- 
tion of some old custom, whose significance was not worn out, 
all on the left of the pulpit were expected, as often as they 
stood up to sing, — which was three times, — to turn their 
backs to the pulpit, and so face away from the chancel where 
the gentry stood. But there was not much inconsistency, 
after all ; the sermon founding its argument chiefly on the 
antithetical facts, that death, lowering the riab to the level of 
the poor, was a dead leveller ; and that, on the other hand, 
the life to come would raise the poor to the level of the rich. 
It was a pity that there was no phrase in the language to 
justify him in carrying out the antithesis, and so balancing 
his sentence like a rope-walker, by saying that life was a live 
leveller. The sermon ended with a solemn warning: “ Those 


182 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


who neglect the gospel-scheme, and never think of death and 
judgment,— be they rich or poor, be they wise or ignorant, — 
whether they dwell in the palace or the hut, — shall be 
damned. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the 
Holv Ghost,” etc. 

Lady Emily was forced to confess that she had not been 
much interested in the sermon. Mrs. Elton thought he spoke 
plainly, but there was not much of the gospel in it. Mr. 
Arnold opined that people should not go to church to hear 
sermons, but to make the responses ; whoever read prayers, it 
made no difference, for the prayers were the Church's, not 
the parson’s; and for the sermon, as long as it showed the un- 
educated how to be saved, and taught them to do their duty in 
the station of life to which God had called them, and so long 
as the parson preached neither Puseyism nor Radicalism he 
frowned solemnly and disgustedly as he repeated the word 
nor Radicalism, it was of comparatively little moment whether 
he was a man of intellect or not, for he could not go wrong. 

Little was said in reply to this, except something not very 
audible or definite, by Mrs. Elton, about the necessity of faith. 
The conversation, which took place at luncheon, flagged, and 
the visitors withdrew to their respective rooms, to comfort 
themselves with their Daily Portions. 

At dinner, Mr. Arnold, evidently believing he had made an 
impression by his harangue of the morning, resumed the sub- 
ject. Hugh was a little surprised to find that he had, even of 
a negative sort, strong opinions on the subject of religion. 

“ What do you think, then, Mrs. Elton, my dear madam, 
that a clergyman ought to preach? ” 

“ I think, Mr. Arnold, that he ought to preach salvation by 
faith in the merits of the Saviour.” 

u Oh ! of course, of course. We shall not differ about that. 
Everybody believes that.” 

“ I doubt it ve»y much. He ought, in order that men may 
believe, to explain the divine plan, by which the demands of 
divine justice are satisfied, and the punishment due to sin 
averted from the guilty, and laid upon the innocent ; that, by 
bearing our sins, he might make atonement to the wrath of a 
justly offended God ; and so — ” 

r£ Now, my dear madam, permit me to ask what right we 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


183 


the subjects of a Supreme Authority, have to inquire into the 
reasons of his doings. It seems to me — I should be sorry to 
offend any one, but it seems to me quite as presumptuous as 
the present arrogance of the lower classes in interfering with 
government, and demanding a right to give their opinion, for- 
sooth, as to the laws by which they shall be governed ; as if 
they were capable of understanding the principles by which 
kings rule, and governors decree justice. I believe I quote 
Scripture.” 

“ Are we, then, to remain in utter ignorance of the divine 
character ? ” 

“ What business have we with the divine character ? Or 
how could we understand it ? It seems to me we have enough 
to do with our own. Do I inquire into the character of my 
sovereign ? All we have to do is, to listen to what we are 
told by those who are educated for such studies, whom the 
Church approves, and who are appointed to take care of the 
souls committed to their charge ; to teach them to respect their 
superiors, and to lead honest, hard-working lives.” 

Much more of the same sort flowed from the oracular lips 
of Mr. Arnold. When he ceased, he found that the conversa- 
tion had ceased also. As soon as the ladies withdrew, he said, 
without looking at Hugh, as he filled his glass : — 

“ Mr. Sutherland, I hate cant.” 

And so he canted against it. 

But the next day, and during the whole week, he seemed to 
lay himself out to make amends for the sharpness of his remarks 
on the Sunday. He was afraid he had made his guests 
uncomfortable, and so sinned against his own character as a 
host. Everything that he could devise was brought to bear 
for their entertainment ; daily rides in the open carriage, in 
which he always accompanied them, to show his estate, and the 
improvements he was making upon it ; visits sometimes to the 
more deserving, as he called them, of tt^p poor upon his 
property, — the more deserving being the most submissive and 
obedient to the wishes of their lord ; inspections of the schools, 
etc., etc. ; in all of which matters he took a stupid, benevolent 
interest. For if people would be content to occupy the corner 
in which he chose to place them, he would thrq^ them morse] 


184 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


after morsel, as long as ever they chose to pick it up. But 
woe to them if they left this corner a single pace ! 

Euphra made one of the party always ; and it was dreary 
indeed for Hugh to he left in the desolate house without her, 
though but for a few hours. And when she was at home, she 
never yet permitted him to speak to her alone. 

There might Ime been some hope for Harry in Hugh’s 
separation from Euphra; but the result was, that, although he 
spent school-hours more regularly with him, Hugh was yet 
more dull and uninterested in the work than he had been be- 
fore. Instead of caring that his pupil should understand this 
or that particular, he would be speculating on Euphra’s 
behavior, trying to account for this or that individual look or 
tone, or seeking, perhaps, a special symbolic meaning in some 
general remark that she had happened to let fall. Meanwhile,, 
poor Harry would be stupefying himself with work which he 
could not understand for lack of some explanation or other that 
ought to have been given him w T eeks ago. Still, however, he 
clung to Hugh with a far-off, worshipping love, never suspect- 
ing that he could be to blame, but thinking at one time that he 
must be ill, at another that he himself was really too stupid, 
and that his big brother could not help getting tired of him. 
When Hugh would be wandering about the place, seeking to 
catch a glimpse of the skirt of Euphra’s dress, as she went about 
with her guests, or devising how he could procure an interview 
with her alone, Harry would be following him at a distance, 
like a little terrier that had lost its master, and did not know 
whether this man would be friendly or not; never spying on his 
actions, but merely longing to be near him, — for had not Hugh 
set him g( ing in the way of life, even if he had now left him 
to walk in it alone ? If Hugh could have once seen into that 
warm, true, pining little heart, he would not have neglected it 
as he did. He had no eyes, however, but for Euphra. 

Still, it may be that even now Harry was able to gather, 
though with tears, some advantage from Hugh’s neglect. He 
used to wander about alpne ; and it may be that the hints 
which his tutor had already given him enabled him now to 
find for himself the interest belonging to many objects never 
before remarked. Perhaps even now he began to take a few 
steps alppe; the waking independence of w r hich was of mor* 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


185 


value foT the future growth of his nature than a thousand 
miles accomplished by the aid of the strong arm of his tutor. 
One certain advantage was, that the constitutional trouble of 
the boy’s nature had now assumed a definite form, by gathering 
around a definite object, and blending its own shadowy being 
with the sorrow he experienced from the loss of his tutor’s 
sympathy. Should that sorrow ever be cleared away, much 
besides might be cleared away along with it. 

Meantime, nature found some channels, worn by his grief, 
through which her comforts, that, like waters, press on all 
sides, and enter at every cranny and fissure in the house of life, 
might gently flow into him with their sympathetic soothing. 
Often he would creep away to the nest which Hugh had built 
and then forsaken ; and seated there in the solitude of the 
wide-bourgeoned oak, he would sometimes feel for a moment as 
if lifted up above the world and its sorrows, to be visited by an 
all-healing wind from God, that came to him, through the 
wilderness of leaves around him, gently, like all powerful 
things. 

But I am putting the boy’s feelings into forms and words 
for him. He had none of either for them. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


A STORM. 

When the mind’s free, 

The body’s delicate : the tempest in my mind 

Doth from my senses take all feeling else 

Save what beats there. King Lear. 


While Harry took to wandering abroad in the afternoon 
sun, Hugh, on the contrary, found the bright weather so dis- 
tasteful to him, that he generally trifled away his afternoons 
with some old romance in the dark library, or lay on the couch 
in his study, listless and suffering. He could neither read nor 
write. What he felt he must do he did ; but nothing more. 


J86 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


One day, about noon, the weather began to change. In the 
afternoon it grew dark; and Hugh, going to the window, per- 
ceived with delight — the first he had experienced for many 
days — that a great thunder-storm was at hand. Harry was 
rather frightened ; but under his fear there evidently lay a 
deep delight. The storm came nearer and nearer; till at 
length a vivid flash broke from the mass of darkness over the 
woods, lasted for one brilliant moment, and vanished. The 
thunder followed, like a pursuing wild beast, close on the 
traces of the vanishing light ; as if the darkness were hunting 
the light from the earth, and bellowing with rage that it could 
not overtake and annihilate it. Without the usual prelude of 
a few great drops, the rain poured at once, in continuous 
streams, from the dense canopy overhead ; and in a few mo- 
ments there were six inches of water all round the house, 
which the force of the falling streams made to foam, and fume, 
and flash like a seething torrent. Harry had crept close to 
Hugh, who stood looking out of the window ; and as if the con- 
vulsion of the elements had begun to clear the spiritual and 
moral, as well as the physical, atmosphere, Hugh looked down 
on the boy kindly, and put his arm round his shoulders. 
Harry nestled closer, and wished it would thunder forever. 
But longing to hear his tutor’s voice, he ventured to speak, 
looking up to his face : — 

“ Euphra says it is only electricity, Mr. Sutherland. What 
is that ? ” 

A common tutor would have seized the opportunity of ex- 
plaining what he knew of the laws and operations of electric- 
ity. But Hugh had been long enough a pupil of David to 
feel that to talk at such a time of anything in nature but God, 
would be to do the boy a serious wrong. One capable of so 
doing would, in the presence of the Saviour himself, speculate 
on the nature of his own faith; or upon the death of his child 
seize the opportunity of lecturing on anatomy. But before 
Hugh could make any reply, a flash, almost invisible from ex- 
cess of light, was accompanied rather than followed by a roar 
that made the house shake ; and in a moment more the room 
was filled with the terrified household, which, by an unreason- 
ing impulse, rushed to the neighborhood of him who was con- 
sidered the strongest. Mr. Arnold was not at home. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


187 


“ Come from the window instantly, Mr. Sutherland. How 
can you be so imprudent ! ” cried Mrs. Elton, her usually 
calm voice elevated in command, but tremulous with fear. 

“Why, Mrs. Elton,” answered Hugh, on whose temper, as 
well as conduct, recent events had had their operation, “ do 
you think the devil makes the thunder? ” 

Lady Emily gave a faint shriek, whether out of reverence 
for the devil, or fear of God, I hesitate to decide ; and, flitting 
out of the room, dived into her bed, and drew the clothes over 
her head, — at least so she was found at a later period of the 
day. Euphra walked up to the window beside Hugh, as if to 
show her approval of his rudeness ; and stood looking out with 
eyes that filled their own night with home-born flashes, though 
her lip was pale, and quivered a little. Mrs. Elton, confound- 
ed at Hugh’s reply, and perhaps fearing the house might in 
consequence share the fate of Sodom, notwithstanding the pies- 
ence of a goodly proportion of the righteous, fled, accompanied 
by the house-keeper, to the wine-cellar. The rest of the house- 
hold crept into corners, except the coachman, who, retaining 
his composure, in virtue of a greater degree of insensibility 
from his nearer approximation to the inanimate creation, emp- 
tied the jug of ale intended for the dinner of the company, and 
went out to look after his horses. 

But there was one in the house who, left alone, threw the 
window wide open ; and, with gently clasped hands and calm 
countenance, looked up into the heavens ; and the clearness of 
whose eye seemed the prophetic symbol of the clearness that 
rose all untroubled above the wild turmoil of the earthly 
storm. 

Truly God was in the storm ; but there was more of God m 
the clear heaven beyond ; and yet more of him in the eye that 
regarded the whole with a still joy, in which was mingled 
no dismay. 

Euphra, Hugh, and Harry were left together, looking out 
upon the storm. Hugh could not speak in Harry s presence. 
At length the boy sat down in a dark corner on the floor, con- 
cealed from the others by a window-curtain. Hugh thought 
lie had left the room. 

“ Euphra,” he began. . 

Euphra looked round for Harry, and not seeing him, 


188 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


thought likewise that he had left the room. She glided away 
without making any answer to Hugh’s invocation. 

He stood for a few moments in motionless despair ; ther 
glancing round the room, and taking in all its desertedness, 
caught up his hat, and rushed out into the storm. It was the 
best relief his feelings could have had ; for the sullen gloom, 
alternated with bursts of flame, invasions of horrid uproar, and 
long, wailing blasts of tyrannous wind, gave him his own mood 
to walk in ; met his spirit with its own element ; widened, as 
it were, his microcosm to the expanse of the macrocosm 
around him. All the walls of separation were thrown down, 
and he lived, not in his own frame, but in the universal frame 
of nature. The world was, for the time, to the reality of his 
feeling, what Schleiermacher, in his “ Monologen,” describes 
it as being to man, — an extension of the body in which he 
dwells. His spirit flashed in the lightning, raved in the thun- 
der, moaned in the wind, and wept in the rain. 

But this could not last long, either without or within him. 

He came to himself in the woods. How far he had wan- 
dered, or whereabout he was, he did not know. The storm 
had died away, and all that remained was the wind and the 
rain. The tree-tops swayed wildly in the irregular blasts, 
and shook new, fitful, distracted, and momentary showers upon 
him. It was evening, but what hour of the evening he could 
not tell. He was wet to the skin ; but that to a young Scotch- 
man is a matter of little moment. 

Although he had no intention of returning home for some 
time, and meant especially to avoid the dinner-table, — for, in 
the mood he was in, it seemed more than he could endure — 
he yet felt the weakness to which we are subject as embodied 
beings, in a common enough form ; that, namely, of the neces- 
sity of knowing the precise portion of space which at the mo- 
ment we fill ; a conviction of our identity not being sufficient 
to make us comfortable, without a knowledge of our locality. 
So, looking all about him, and finding where the wood seemed 
thinnest, he went in that direction ; and soon, by forcing his 
way through obstacles of all salvage kinds, found himself in 
the high road, within a quarter of a mile of the country town 
next to Arnstead, removed from it about three miles. This 
little town he knew pretty well j and, beginning to feel ex- 


DAVID ELGINI3R0D. 


189 


hausted, resolved to go to an inn there, dry his clothes, and 
then walk back in the moonlight ; for he felt sure the storm 
would be quite over in an hour or so. The fatigue he now 
felt was proof enough in itself that the inward storm had, for 
the time, raved itself off ; and now — must it be confessed ? 
— he wished very much for something to eat and drink. 

He was soon seated by a blazing fire, with a chop and a 
jug of ale before him. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

AN EVENING LECTURE. 


The Nightmare 
Shall call thee when it walks. 

Middleton. — The Witch. 

The inn to which Hugh had betaken himself, though not 
the first in the town, was yet what is called a respectable 
house, and was possessed of a room of considerable size, in 
which the farmers of the neighborhood were accustomed to 
hold their gatherings. While eating his dinner Hugh 
learned from the conversation around him — for he sat in the 
kitchen for the sake of the fire — that this room was being 
got ready for a lecture on 11 Bilology,” as the landlady called 
it. Bills in red and blue had been posted all over the town ; 
and before he had finished his dinner, the audience had begun 
to arrive. Partly from curiosity about a subject of which he 
knew nothing, and partly because it still rained, and, hav- 
ing got nearly dry, he did not care about a second wetting if 
he could help it, Hugh resolved to make one of them. So 
he stood by the fire till he was informed that the lecturer had 
made his appearance, when he went upstairs, paid his shilling, 
and was admitted to one of the front seats. The room was 
tolerably lighted with gas ; and a platform had been construct- 
ed for the lecturer and his subjects. When the place was 
about half filled, he came from another room alone, — a little, 
thick-set, bull-necked man, with vulgar face and rusty black 


190 


DAVID ELGINBROD* 


clothes, — and, mounting the platform, commenced his lecture, 
if lecture it could be called, in which there seemed to be no 
order, and scarcely any sequence. No attempt even at a the- 
ory showed itself in the mass of what he called facts and sci- 
entific truths ; and he perpeturated the most awful blunders 
in his English. It will not be desired that I should give any 
further account of such a lecture. The lecturer himself 
seemed to depend chiefly for his success upon the manifesta- 
tions of his art which he proceeded to bring forward. He 
called his familiar by the name of Willi-am , and a stunted, 
pale-faced, dull-looking youth started up from somewhere, and 
scrambled upon the platform beside his master. Upon this 
tutored slave a number of experiments was performed. He 
was first cast into whatever abnormal condition is necessary 
for the operations of biology, and then compelled to make a 
fool of himself by exhibiting actions the most inconsistent with 
his real circumstances and necessities. But, aware that all 
this was open to the most palpable objection of collusion, the 
operator next invited any of the company that pleased to sub- 
mit themselves to his influences. Alter a pause of a few mo- 
ments, a stout country fellow, florid and healthy, got up and 
slouched to the platform. Certainly, whatever might be the 
nature of the influence that was brought to bear, its operative 
power could not, with the least probability, be attributed to 
an over-activity of imagination in either of the subjects sub- 
mitted to its exercise. In the latter as well as in the former 
case the operator was eminently successful ; and the clown re- 
turned to his seat, looking remarkably foolish and conscious of 
disgrace, — a sufficient voucher to most present, that in this 
case at least there had been no collusion. Several others vol- 
unteered their negative services ; but with no one of them did 
he succeed so well, and in one case the failure was evident. 
The lecturer pretended to account for this, in making some 
confused and unintelligible remarks about the state of the 
weather, the thunder-storm, electricity, etc., of which things 
he evidently did not understand the best known laws. 

“ The blundering idiot ! ” growled, close to Hugh’s ear, a 
roice with a foreign accent. 

He looked round sharply. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 191 

A tall, powerful, eminently handsome man, witn his face as 
foreign as his tone and accent, sat beside him. 

“I your pardon,” he said to Hugh; “I thought 
aloud.” 

u I should like to know, if you wouldn’t mind telling me, 
what you detect of the blunderer in him. I am quite ignorant 
of these matters.” 

“ I have had many opportunities of observing them ; and I 
see at once that this man, though he has the natural power, is 
excessively ignorant of the whole subject.” 

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to Hugh’s modest 
inquiry. Hugh had not yet learned that one will always fare 
better by concealing than by acknowledging ignorance. The 
man, whatever his capacity, who honestly confesses even a 
partial ignorance, will instantly be treated as more or less in- 
capable, by the ordinary man who has already gained a partial 
knowledge, or is capable of assuming a knowledge which he 
does not possess. But, for God’s sake ! let the honest and 
modest man stick to his honesty and modesty, cost what they 
may. 

Hugh was silent, and fixed his attention once more on what 
was going on. But presently he became aware that the for- 
eigner was scrutinizing him with the closest attention. He 
knew this, somehow, without having looked round; and the 
knowledge was accompanied with a feeling of discomfort that 
caused him to make a restless movement on his seat. Pres- 
ently he felt that the annoyance had ceased; but not many 
minutes had passed before it again commenced. In order to 
relieve himself from a feeling which he could only compare to 
that which might be produced by the presence of the dead, he 
turned towards his neighbor so suddenly, that it seemed for a 
moment to embarrass him, his eyes being caught in the very 
act of devouring the stolen indulgence. But the stranger re- 
covered himself instantly with the question : — 

“ Will you permit me to ask of what country you are? ” 

Hugh thought he made the request only for the sake of cov- 
ering his rudeness ; and so merely answered : — 

“ Why, an Englishman of course.” 

“ Ah ! yes ; it is not necessary to be told that. But it 
seems to me, from your accent, that you are a Scotchman.” 


192 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ So I am.” 

“A Highlander ?” 

11 1 was born in the Highlands. But, if you are very anx- 
ious to know my pedigree, I have no reason for concealing the 
fact that I am, by birth, half a Scotchman and half a Welch- 

The foreigner riveted his gaze, though but for the briefest 
moment sufficient to justify its being called a gaze, once more 
upon Hugh; and then, with a slight bow, as of acquiescence, 
turned towards the lecturer. 

When the lecture was over, and Hugh was walking away in 
the midst of the withdrawing audience, the stranger touched 
him on the shoulder. 

“ You said that you would like to know more of this sci- 
ence; will you come to my lodging? ” said he. 

“ With pleasure,” Hugh answered; though the look with 
which he accompanied the words must have been one rather 

of surprise. . 

“ You are astonished that a stranger should invite you so. 
Ah! you English always demand an introduction. 1 here is 

mine.” _ _ 7 . . TT l 

He handed Hugh a card, — Herr von Funkelstem. Hugh 

happened to be provided with one in exchange. 

The two walked out of the inn, along the old High Street, 
full of gables and all the delightful irregularities of an old 
country-town, till they came to a court, down which Herr von 
Funkelstein led the way. 

He let himself in with a pass-key at a low door, and then 
conducted Hugh, by a stair whose narrowness was equalled by 
its steepness, to a room, which, though not many yards abovt. 
the level of the court, was yet next to the roof of the low 
house. Hugh could see nothing till his conductor lighted a 
candle. Then he found himself in a rather large room with a 
shaky floor and a low roof. A chintz-curtained bed in one 
corner had the skin of a tiger thrown over it ; and a table in 
another had a pair of foils lying upon it. The German — for 
such he seemed to Hugh — offered him a chair in the politest 
manner, and Hugh sat down. 

u I am only in lodgings here,” said the ho3t ; “so you will 
forgive the poverty of my establishment.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


193 


“ There is no occasion for forgiveness I assure you,” an- 
swered Hugh. 

“ You wished to know something of the subject with which 
that lecturer was befooling himself and the audience at the 
same time.” 

“ I shall be grateful for any enlightenment.” 

“ Ah ! it is a subject for the study of a benevolent scholar ; 
not for such a clown as that. He jumps at no conclusions ; 
yet he shares the fate of one who does : he flounders in the 
mire between. No man will make anything of it who has not 
the benefit of the human race at heart. Humanity is the only 
safe guide in matters such as these. This is a dangerous 
study indeed in unskilful hands.” 

Here a frightful caterwauling interrupted Herr von Funkel- 
stein. The room had a storm-window, of which the lattice 
stood open. In front of it on the roof, seen against a white 
house opposite, stood a demon of a cat, arched to half its 
length, with a tail expanded to double its natural thickness. 
Its antagonist was invisible from where Hugh sat. Yon Fun- 
kelstein started up without making the slightest noise, trod as 
softly as a cat to the table, took up one of the foils, removed 
the button, and, creeping close to the window, made one rapid 
pass at the enemy, which vanished with a shriek of hatred and 
fear. He then, replacing the button, laid the foil down, and 
resumed his seat and his discourse. This, after dealing with 
generalities and commonplaces for some time, gave no sign of 
coming either to an end or to the point. All the time he was 
watching Hugh — at least so Hugh thought — as if speculat- 
ing on him in general. Then appearing to have come to some 
conclusion, he gave his mind more to his talk, and encouraged 
Hugh to speak as well. The conversation lasted for nearly 
half an hour. At its close, Hugh felt that the stranger had 
touched upon a variety of interesting subjects, as one possessed 
of a minute knowledge of them. But he did not feel that he 
had gained any insight from his conversation. It seemed, 
rather, as if he had been giving him a number of psychological, 
social, literary, and scientific receipts. During the course of 
the talk, his eyes had appeared to rest on Hugh by a kind of 
compulsion ; as if by its own will it would have retired from 
the scrutiny, but the will of its owner was too strong for it 

13 


194 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


It seemed, in relation to him, to be only a kind of tool, which 
he used for a particular purpose. 

At length Funkelstein rose, and, marching across the room 
to a cupboard, brought out a bottle and glasses, saying, in the 
most by-the-by way, as he went : — 

“ Have you the second-sight, Mr. Sutherland? ” 

“ Certainly not, as far as I am aware.” 

“ Ah ! the Welch do have it, do they not? ” 

“ Oh, yes, of course ! ” answered Hugh, laughing. “ I 
should like to know, though,” he added, “ whether they in- 
herit the gift as Celts or as mountaineers.” 

“ Will you take a glass of — ? ” 

“Of nothing, thank you,” answered and interrupted Hugh. 
“It is time for me to be going. Indeed, I fear I have stayed 
too long already. Good-night, Herr von Funkelstein. 

“ You will allow me the honor of returning your visit ? ” 

Hugh felt he could do no less, although he had not the 
smallest desire to keep up the acquaintance. He wrote Am - 
stead on his card. 

As he left the house, he stumbled over something in the 
court. Looking down, he saw it was a cat, apparently dead. 

“ Can it be the cat Herr Funkelstein made the pass at?’ 
thought he. But presently he forgot all about it, in the vis- 
ions °of Euphra which filled his "mind during his moonlight 
walk home. It just occurred to him, however, before those 
visions had blotted everything else from his view, that he had 
learned simply nothing whatever about biology from his late 
host. 

When he reached home, he was admitted by the butler, and 
retired to bed at once, where he slept soundly, for the first 
time for many nights. 

But, as he drew near his own room, he might have seen, 
though he saw not, a little white figure gliding away in the 
far distance of the long passage. It was only Harry, who 
could not lie still in his bed, till he knew that his big brother 
was safe at home. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


195 


CHAPTER XXX. 

ANOTHER EVENING LECTURE. 


This Eneas is come to Paradise 
Out of the swolowe of Hell. 

Chaucer. — Legend of Dido. 

The next day, Hugh was determined to find or make an 
opportunity of speaking to Euphra ; and fortune seemed to 
favor him. Or was it Euphra herself in one or other of her in- 
explicable moods ? At all events, she had that morning allowed 
the ladies and her uncle to go without her ; and Hugh met 
her as he went to his study. 

u May I speak to you for one moment? ” said he, hurriedly, 
and with trembling lips. 

“ Yes, certainly,” she replied, with a smile, and a glance in 
his face as of wonder as to what could trouble him so much. 
Then turning, and leading the way, she said : — 

“ Come into my room.” 

He followed her. She turned and shut the door, which he 
had left open behind him. He almost knelt to her ; but some- 
thing held him back from that. 

“ Euphra,” he said, “ what have I done to offend you? ” 

“ Offend me ! Nothing.” This was uttered in a perfect 
tone of surprise. 

“ How is it that you avoid me as you do, and will not allow 
me one moment’s speech with you? You are driving me to 
distraction.” 

“Why, you foolish man!” she answered, half playfully, 
pressing the palms of her little hands together, and looking up 
in his face, “ how can I ? Don’t you see how those two dear 
old ladies swallow me up in their faddles ? Oh, dear ! Oh, 
dear ! I wish they would go. Then it would be all right 
again, — wouldn't it ? ” 

But Hugh was not to be so easily satisfied. 

“ Before they came, ever since that night — ” 

“ Hush-sh ! ” she interrupted, putting her finger on his lips, 
and looking hurriedly round her with an air of fright, of which 


196 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


he could hardly judge whether it was real or assumed,— 
“ hush ! ” 

Comforted wondrously by the hushing finger, Hugh would 
yet understand more. 

“ J am no baby, dear Euphra,” he said, taking hold of the 
hand to which the finger belonged, and laying it on his mouth ; 
“ do not make one of me. There is some mystery in all this, — 
at least something I do not understand.” 

“ I will tell you all about it one day. But, seriously, you 
must be careful how you behave to me ; for if my uncle should, 
but for one moment, entertain a suspicion — good-by to you 
— perhaps good-by to Arnstead. All my influence with him 
comes from his thinking that I like him better than anybody 
else. So you must not make the poor old man jealous. By- 
the-by,” she went on, — rapidly, as if she would turn the 
current of the conversation aside, — “ what a favorite you have 
grown with him ! You should have heard him talk of you to 
the old ladies. I might well be jealous of you. There never 
was a tutor like his.” 

Hugh’s heart smote him that the praise of even this common 
man, proud of his own vanity, should be undeserved by him. 
He was troubled, too, at the flippancy with which Euphra 
Bpoke ; yet not the less did he feel that he loved her passion- 
ately. 

“ I dare say,” he replied, “ he praised me as he would 
anything else that happened to be his. Isn’t that old bay 
horse of his the best hack in the county? ” 

“ You naughty man ! Are you going to be satirical? ” 

“ You claim that as your privilege, do you? ” 

“ Worse and worse ! I will not talk to you. But, seriously, 
for I must go — bring your Italian to — to — ” She hesitated. 

“ To the library, — why not ? ” suggested Hugh. 

“ No-o,” she answered, shaking her head, and looking quite 
solemn. 

“Well, will you come to my study? Will that please you 
better? ” 

“ Yes. I will,” she answered, with a definitive tone. “ Good- 
by now.” 

She opened the door, anc having looked cut to see that na 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


197 


one was passing, told him to go. As he went, he felt as if the 
oaken floor were elastic beneath his tread. 

It was some time after the household had retired, however, 
before Euphra made her appearance at the door of his study. 
She seemed rather shy of entering, and hesitated, as if she felt 
she was doing something she ought not to do. But as soon as 
she had entered, and the door was shut, she appeared to re- 
cover herself quite ; and they sat down at the table with their 
books. They could not get on very well with their reading, 
however. Hugh often forgot what he was about, in looking at 
her; and she seemed nowise inclined to avert his gazes, or 
check the growth of his admiration. 

Rather abruptly, but apparently starting from some sugges- 
tion in the book, she said to him : — 

“ By-the-by, has Mr. Arnold ever said anything to you 
about the family jewels ? ” 

“ No,” said Hugh. “ Are there many? ” 

“ Yes, a great many. Mr. Arnold is very proud of them, as 
well as of the portraits ; so he treats them in the same way, — 
keeps them locked up. Indeed, he seldom allows them to see 
daylight, except it be as a mark of especial favor to some 
one.” 

“ I should like much to see them. I have always been 
curious about stones. They are wonderful, mysterious things 
to me.” 

Euphra gave him a very peculiar, searching glance, as he 
spoke. 

“ Shall I,” he continued, “ give him a hint that I should 
like to see them ? ” 

“By no means,” answered Euphra, emphatically, “except 
he should refer to them himself. He is very jealous of his 
possessions, — his family possessions, I mean. Poor old man ! 
he has not much else to plume himself upon ; has he ? ” 

“ He is kind to you, Euphra.” 

She looked at him as if she did not understand him. 

“ Yes. What then ? ” 

“You ought not to be unkind to him.” 

“ You odd creature ! I am not unkind to him. I like 
him. But we are not getting on with our reading. What 
could have led me to talk about family jewels ? Oh ! I see. 


398 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


What a strange thing the association of ideas is ! There is not 
a very obvious connection here, is there? ” 

“ No. One cannot account for such things. The links in 
the chain of ideas are sometimes slender enough; yet the 
slenderest is sufficient to enable the electric flash of thought to 
pass along the line.” 

She seemed pondering for a moment. 

“ That strikes me as a fine simile,” she said. “ You ought 
to be a poet yourself.” 

Hugh made no reply. 

“ I dare say you have hundreds of poems in that old desk, 
now ? ” 

il I think they might be counted by tens.” 

“ Do let me see them.” 

“ You would not care for them.” 

“ Wouldn’t I, Hugh ? ” 

“I will, on one condition — two conditions, I mean.” 

“ What are they ? ” 

“ One is, that you show me yours.” 

“ Mine? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Who told you I wrote verses ? That silly boy ? ” 

“No. I saw your verses before I saw you. You remem- 
ber?” 

“ It was very dishonorable in you to read them.” 

“ I only saw they were verses. I did not read a word.” 

“ I forgive you, then. You must show me yours first, till I 
see whether I could venture to let you see mine. If yours 
were very bad indeed, then I might risk showing mine.” 

And much more of this sort, with which I will not weary my 
readers. It ended in Hugh’s taking from the old escritoire a 
bundle of papers, and handing them to Euphra. But the 
reader need not fear that I am going to print any of these 
verses. I have more respect for my honest prose page than to 
break it up so. Indeed, the whole of this interview might 
have been omitted, but for two circumstances. One of them 
was, that, in getting these papers, Hugh had to open a con- 
cealed portion of the escritoire, which his mathematical knowl- 
edge had enabled him to discover. It had evidently not been 
opened for many years before he found it. He had made use 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


199 


of it to hold the only treasures he had, — poor enough 
treasures, certainly ! Not a loving note, not a lock of hair 
even had he, — nothing but the few cobwebs spun from his own 
brain. It is true, we are rich or poor according to what wo 
are, not what we have. But what a man has produced is no* 
what he is. He may even impoverish his true self by pro- 
duction. 

When Euphra saw him open this place, she uttered a sup- 
pressed cry of astonishment. 

“ Ah ! ” said Hugh, “you did not know of this hidie-hole , 
did you? ” 

“Indeed, I did not. I had used the desk myself, for this 
was a favorite room of mine before you came, but I never found 
that. Dear me ! Let me look.” 

She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned over him, as 
he pointed out the way of opening it. 

“Did you find nothing in it?” she said, with a light 
tremor in her voice. 

“ Nothing whatever.” 

“ There may be more places.” 

“No. I have accounted for the whole bulk, I believe.” 

“ How strange ! ” 

“ But now you must give me my guerdon,” said Hugh, 
timidly. 

The fact was, the poor youth had bargained, in a playful 
manner, and yet with an earnest, covetous heart, for one, the 
first kiss, in return for the poems she begged to see. 

She turned her face towards him. 

The second circumstance which makes the interview worth 
recording is, that, at this moment, three distinct knocks were 
heard on the window. They sprang asunder, and saw each 
other’s face pale as death. In Euphra's, the expression of 
fright was mingled with one of annoyance. Hugh, though his 
heart trembled like a bird, leaped to the window. Nothing 
was to be seen but the trees that “stretched their dark arms ” 
within a few feet of the oriel. Turning again towards Euphra, 
he found, to his mortification, that she had vanished and had 
left the packet of poems behind her. 

He replaced them in their old quarters in the escritoire ; 
and his vague dismay at the unaccountable noises was 


200 


DAVID ELG1NBKOD. 


drowned in the bitter waters of miserable humiliation. Ho 
slept at last from the exhaustion of disappointment. 

When he awoke, however, he tried to persuade himself that 
he had made far too much of the trifling circumstance of her 
leaving the verses behind. For was she not terrified ? — 
Why, then, did she leave him and go alone to her own room ? 
— She must have felt that she ought not to be in his, at that 
hour, and therefore dared not stay. — Why dared not ? Did 
she think the house was haunted by a ghost of propriety ? 
What rational theory could he invent to account for the 
strange and repeated sounds ? He puzzled himself over it to 
the verge of absolute intellectual prostration. 

He was generally the first in the breakfast-room; that is, 
after Euphra, who was always the first. She went up to him 
as he entered, and said, almost in a whisper : — 

“ Have you got the poems for me ? Quick ! ” 

Hugh hesitated. She looked at him. 

“No,” he said at last. “ You never wanted them.” 

“ That is very unkind ; when you know I was frightened 
out of my wits. Do give me them.” 

“ They are not worth giving you. Besides, I have not got 
them. I don’t carry them in my pocket. They are in the 
escritoire. I couldn’t leave them lying about. Never mind 
them.” 

“ I have a right to them,” she said, looking up at him 
slyly and shyly. 

“ Well, I gave you them, and you did not think them worth 
keeping. I kept my part of the bargain.” 

She looked annoyed. 

“Never mind, dear Euphra; you shall have them, or any- 
thing else I have ; — the brain that made them if you like.” 

“ Was it only the brain that had to do with the making of 
them ? ” 

“ Perhaps the heart too ; but you have that already.” 

Her face flushed like a damask rose. 

At that moment Mrs. Elton entered, and looked a little sur- 
prised. Euphra instantly said : — 

“I think it is rather too bad of you, Mr. Sutherland, to 
keep the boy so hard to his work, when you know he is not 
strong. Mrs. Elton, I have been begging a holiday for pool 


DAVID ELGINBRCD. 


201 


Harry, to let him go with us to Wotton House ; hut he has 
such a hard task-master ! He will not hear of it.” 

The flush, which she could not get rid of all at once, was 
thus made to do duty as one of displeasure. Mrs. Elton was 
thoroughly deceived, and united her entreaties to those of Miss 
Cameron. Hugh was compelled to join in the deception, and 
pretend to yield a slow consent. Thus a holiday was extem- 
porized for Harry, subject to the approbation of his father. 
This was readily granted ; and Mr. Arnold, turning to Hugh, 
said: — 

“You will have nothing to do, Mr. Sutherland; had you 
not better join us? ” 

“With pleasure,” replied he; “but the carriage will be 
full.” 

“ You can take your horse.” 

“ Thank you very much. I will.” 

The day was delightful ; one of those gray summer-days, 
that are far better for an excursion than bright ones. In the 
best of spirits, mounted on a good horse, riding alongside of 
the carriage in which was the lady who was all womankind to 
him, and who, without taking much notice of him, yet con- 
trived to throw him a glance now and then, Hugh would have 
been overflowingly happy, but for an unquiet, distressed feel- 
ing, which all the time made him aware of the presence of a 
sick conscience somewhere within. Mr. Arnold was exceed- 
ingly pleasant, for he was much taken with the sweetness and 
modesty of Lady Emily, who, having no strong opinions upon 
anything, received those of Mr. Arnold with attentive submis- 
sion. He saw, or fancied he saw, in her, a great resemblance 
to his deceased wife, to whom he had been as sincerely at- 
tached as his nature would allow. In fact, Lady Emily ad- 
vanced so rapidly in his good graces, that either Euphra was, 
or thought fit to appear, rather jealous of her. She paid hei 
every attention, however, and seemed to gratify Mr. Arnold by 
her care of the invalid. She even joined in the entreaties 
which, on their way home, he made with evident earnestness, 
for an extension of their visit to a month. Lady Emily was 
already so much better for the change, that Mrs. Elton made 
no objection to the proposal. Euphra gave Hugh one look of 
misery, and, turning agaii. insisted with increased warmth on 


202 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


their immediate consent. It was gained without much diffi* 
culty, before they reached home. 

Harry, too, was captivated by the gentle kindness of Lady 
Emily, and hardly took his eyes off her all the way ; while, on 
the other hand, his delicate little attentions had already 
gained the heart of good Mrs. Elton, who from the first had 
remarked and pitied the sad looks of the boy. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


▲ NEW VISITOR AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 

He’s enough 

To bring a woman to confusion, 

More than a wiser man, or a far greater. 

Middleton. — The Witch. 


When they reached the lodge, Lady Emily expressed a wish 
to walk up the avenue to the house. To this Mr. Arnold 
gladly consented. The carriage was sent round the back way; 
and Hugh, dismounting, gave his horse to the footman in at- 
tendance. As they drew near the house, the rest of the party 
having stopped to look at an old tree which was a favorite with 
its owner, Hugh and Harry were some yards in advance, 
when the former spied, approaching them from the house, the 
distinguished figure of Herr von Funkelstein. Saluting as 
they met, the visitor informed Hugh that he had just been 
leaving his card for him, and would call some other morning 
soon; for, as he was rusticating, he had little to occupy him. 
Hugh turned with him towards the rest of the party, who were 
now close at hand, when Funkelstein exclaimed, in a tone of 
surprise : — 

“ What ! Miss Cameron here ! ” and advanced with a pro- 
found obeisance, holding his hat in his hand. 

Hugh thought he saw her look annoyed ; but she held out 
her hand to him, and, in a voice indicating — still as li ap- 
peared to Hugh — some reluctance, introduced him to her 
uncle, with the words : — 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


203 


‘ We met at Sir Edward Laston’s, when I was visiting Mrs. 
Elkingham, two years ago, uncle.” 

Mr. Arnold lifted his hat, and bowed politely to the stran- 
ger. Had Euphra informed him that, although a person of 
considerable influence in Sir Edward’s household, Herr von 
Funkelstein had his standing there only as Sir Edward’s pri- 
vate secretary, Mr. Arnold’s aversion to foreigners generally 
would not have been so scrupulously banished into the back- 
ground of his behavior. Ordinary civilities passed between 
them, marked by an air of flattering deference on Funkel- 
stein’s part, which might have been disagreeable to a man less 
uninterruptedly conscious of his own importance than Mr. Ar- 
nold ; and the new visitor turned once more, as if forgetful of 
his previous direction, and accompanied them towards the 
house. Before they reached it he had, even in that short 
space, ingratiated himself so far with Mr. Arnold, that he 
asked him to stay and dine with them, — an invitation which 
was accepted with manifest pleasure. 

“ Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Arnold, 4 ‘will you show your 
friend anything worth note about the place ? He has kindly 
consented to dine with us ; and in the mean time I have some 
letters to write.” 

“With pleasure,” answered Hugh. 

But all this time he had been inwardly commenting on the 
appearance of his friend, as Mr. Arnold called him, with the 
jealousy of a youth in love ; for was not Funkelstein an old 
acquaintance of Miss Cameron ? What might not have passed 
between them in that old hidden time ? — for love is jealous 
of the past as well as of the future. Love, as well as meta- 
physics, has a lasting quarrel with time and space ; the lower 
love fears them, while the higher defies them. And he could 
not help seeing that Funkelstein was one to win favor in 
ladies’ eyes. Very regular features and a dark complexion 
were lighted up by eyes as black as Euphra’s, and capable of 
a wonderful play of light ; while his form was remarkable for 
strength and symmetry. Hugh felt that in any company he 
would attract immediate attention. His long, dark beard, of 
which just the centre was removed to expose a finely turned 
chin, blew over each shoulder as often as they met the wind in 
going round the house. From what I have heard of him from 


204 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


other deponents besides Hugh, I should judge that he did well 
to conceal the lines of his mouth in a long mustache, which 
flowed into his bifurcated beard. He had just enough of the 
foreign in his dress to add to the appearance of fashion which 
it bore. 

As they walked, Hugh could not help observing an odd 
peculiarity in the carriage of his companion. It was, that, 
every few steps, he gave a backward and downward glance to 
the right, with a sweeping bend of his body, as if he were try- 
ing to get a view of the calf of his leg, or as if he fancied he 
felt something trailing at his foot. So probable, from his 
motion, did the latter supposition seem, that Hugh changed 
sides to satisfy himself whether or not there was some dragging 
briar or straw annoying him ; but no folloioer was to be dis- 
covered. 

“ You are a happy man, Mr. Sutherland/’ said the guest, 
“ to live under the same roof with that beautiful Miss Cam- 
eron.” 

“ Am I? ” thought Hugh, but he only said, affecting some 
surprise : — 

“ Do you think her so beautiful ? ” 

Funkelstein’s eyes were fixed upon him, as if to see the 
effect of his remark. Hugh felt them, and could not conform 
his face to the indifference of his words. But his companion 
only answered indifferently : — 

“ Well, I should say so ; but beauty is not, that is not 
beauty for us.” 

Whether or not there was poison in the fork of this remark, 
Hugh could only conjecture. He made no reply. 

As they walked about the precincts of the house, Funkel- 
stein asked many questions of Hugh, which his entire igno- 
rance of domestic architecture made it impossible for him to 
answer. This seemed only to excite the questioner’s desire for 
information to a higher pitch ; and, as if the very stones could 
reply to his demands, he examined the whole range of the 
various buildings constituting the house of Arnstead “ as he 
would draw it.” 

“ Certainly,” said he, “ there is at least variety enough in 
the style of this mass of material. There is enough for 1 one 
pyramid.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


205 


•‘That would be rather at the expense of the variety, would 
it not ? ” said Hugh, in spiteful response to the inconsequence of 
the second member of Funkelstein’s remark. But the latter 
was apparently too much absorbed in his continued inspection 
of the house, from every attainable point of near view, to heed 
the comment. 

“ This they call the Ghost’s Walk,” said Hugh. 

“ Ah ! about these old houses there are always such tales.' * 

“ What sort of tales do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean of particular spots and their ghosts. You must 
have heard many such ? ” 

“ No, not I.” 

“ I think Germany is more prolific of such stories. I could 
tell you plenty.” 

“ But you don’t mean you believe such things? ” 

“ To me it is equal. I look at them entirely as objects of 
art.” 

“ That is a new view of a ghost to me. An object of art ? 
I should have thought them considerably more suitable objects 
previous to their disembodiment.” 

“Ah ! you do not understand. You call art painting, don’t 
you, or sculpture at most? I give up sculpture certainly, 
and painting too. But don’t you think a ghost a very effective 
object in literature now ? Confess : do you not like a ghost- 
story very much ? ” 

“ Yes, if it is a very good one.” 

“ Hamlet now? ” 

“Ah ! we don’t speak of Shakespeare’s plays as stories. His 
characters are so real to us, that, in thinking of their de- 
velopment, we go back even to their fathers and mothers, and 
sometimes even speculate about their future.” 

“You islanders are always in earnest somehow. So are 
we Germans. We are all one.” 

“ I hope you can be in earnest about dinner, then, for I 
hear the bell.” 

“We must render ourselves in the drawing-room, then? 
Yes.” 

When they entered the drawing-room, they found Miss 
Cameron alone. Funkelstein advanced, and addressed a few 
words to her in German which Hugh’s limited acquaintance 


206 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


with the language prevented him from catching. At the 
Borne moment, Mr. Arnold entered, and Funkelstein, turning 
to him immediately, proceeded, as if by way of apology for 
speaking in an unknown tongue, to interpret for Mr. Arnold’s 
benefit : — 

“ I have just been telling Miss Cameron, in the language 
of my country, how much better she looks than when I saw 
ner at Sir Edward Laston’s.” 

“I know I was quite a scarecrow then,” said Euphra, 
attempting to laugh. 

“ And now you are quite a decoy-duck, eh, Euphra? ” said 
Mr. Arnold, laughing in reality at his own joke, which put 
him in great good-humor for the whole time of dinner and 
dessert. 

“ Thank you, uncle,” said Euphra, with a prettily pretended 
affectation of humility. Then she added gayly : — 

“ When did you rise on our Sussex horizon, Herr von 
Funkelstein? ” 

“ Oh ! I have been in the neighborhood for a few days; 
but I owe my meeting with you to one of those coincidences 
which, were they not so pleasant, — to me in this case, at 
least, — one would think could only result from the blundering 
of old Dame Nature over her knitting. If I had not had the 
good fortune to meet Mr. Sutherland the other evening, I 
should have remained in utter ignorance of your neighborhood 
and my own felicity, Miss Cameron. Indeed, I called now to 
see him, not you.” 

Hugh saw Mr. Arnold looking rather doubtful of the 
foreigner’s fine speeches. 

Dinner was announced. Funkelstein took Miss Cameron, 
Hugh Mrs. Elton, and Mr. Arnold followed with Lady Emily, 
who would never precede her older friend. Hugh tried to talk 
to Mrs. Elton, but with meagre success. He was suddenly a 
nobody, and felt more than he had felt for a long time what, 
in his present deteriorated moral state, he considered the 
degradation of his position. A gulf seemed to have suddenly 
yawned between himself and Euphra, and the loudest voice of 
his despairing agony could not reach across that gulf. An 
awful conviction awoke within him, that the woman he wor- 
shipped would scarcely receive his worship at the worth of 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


207 


incense now ; and yet in spirit lie fell down grovelling before 
his idol. The words “ euphrasy and rue ” kept ringing in his 
brain, coming over and over with an awful mingling of chime 
and toll. When he thought about it afterwards, he seemed to 
have been a year in crossing the hall with Mrs. Elton on his 
arm. But as if divining his thoughts, just as they passed 
through the dining-room door, Euphra looked round at him, 
almost over Funkelstein’s shoulder, and, without putting into 
her face the least expression discernible by either of the others 
following, contrived to banish for the time all Hugh’s despair, 
and to convince him that he had nothing to fear from Funkel- 
stein. How it was done Hugh himself could not tell. He 
could not even recall the look. He only knew that he had 
been as miserable as one waking in his coffin, and that now he 
was out in the sunny air. 

During dinner, Funkelstein paid no very particular atten- 
tion to Euphrasia, but was remarkably polite to Lady Emily. 
She seemed hardly to know how to receive his attentions, but 
to regard him as a strange animal, which she did not know how 
to treat, and of which she was a little afraid. Mrs. Elton, on 
the contrary, appeared to be delighted with his behavior and 
conversation ; for, without showing the least originality, he yet 
had seen so much, and knew so well how to bring out what he 
had seen, that he was a most interesting companion. Hugh 
took little share in the conversation beyond listening as well as 
he could, to prevent himself from gazing too much at Euphra. 

“ Had Mr. Sutherland and you been old acquaintances then, 
Herr von Funkelstein?” asked Mr. Arnold, reverting to the 
conversation which had been interrupted by the announcement 
of dinner. 

“Not at all. We met quite accidentally, and introduced 
ourselves. I believe a thunder-storm and a lecture on biology 
were the mediating parties between us. Was it not so, Mr. 
Sutherland? ” 

“ I beg your pardon,” stammered Hugh. But Mr. Arnold 
interposed : — 

“ A lecture on what, did you say? ” 

“ On biology.” 

Mr. Arnold looked posed. He did not like to say he did 
no know what the word meant ; for, like many more ignorant 


208 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


men, lift thought Auch a confession humiliating. Yon Funkel« 
stein hastened to his relief. . 

“ It would be rather surprising if you were acquainted with 
the subject, Mr. Arnold. I fear to explain it to you, lest both 
Mr. Sutherland and myself should sink irrecoverably in your 
estimation. But young men want to know all that is going 

Herr Funkelstein was not exactly what one would call a 
young man ; but, as he chose to do so himself, there was no 
one to dispute the classification. 

“ Oh ! of course,” replied Mr. Arnold; “quite right. 
What, then, pray, is biology ? ” 

“ A science, falsely so called,” said Hugh, who, waking up 
a little, wanted to join in the conversation. 

“ What does the word mean? ” said Mr. Arnold. 

Yon Funkelstein answered at once : — 

“ The science of life. But I must say, the name, as now 
applied, is no indication of the thing signified.” _ 

“ How, then, is a gentleman to know what it is? ” said Mr. 
Arnold, half pettishly, and forgetting that his knowledge had 
not extended even to the interpretation of the name. 

“It is one of the sciences, true or false, connected with 
animal magnetism.” 

“ Bah ! ” exclaimed Mr. Arnold, rather rudely. 

“ You would have said so if you had heard the lecture, 
said Funkelstein. ... 

The conversation had not taken this turn till quite late in 
the dining ceremony. Euphra rose to go; and Hugh re- 
marked that her face was dreadfully pale. But she walked 
steadily out of the room. 

This interrupted the course of the talk, and the subject was 
not resumed. Immediately after tea, which was served very 
soon, Funkelstein took his leave of the ladies. 

“ We shall be glad to see you often while in this neighbor- 
hood,” said Mr. Arnold, as ho bade him good-night. 

“ I shall, without fail, do myself the honor of calling again 
soon,” replied he, and bowed himself out. 

Lady Emily, evidently relieved by his departure, rose, and, 
approaching Euphra, said, in a sweet, coaxing tone, which 
even she could hardly have resisted : — 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


209 


II Dear Miss Cameron, you promised to sing, for me in par- 
ticular, some evening. May I claim the fulfilment of your 
promise? ” 

Euphra had recovered her complexion, and she, too, seemed 
to Hugh to be relieved by the departure of Funkelstein. 

“ Certainly,’’ she answered, rising at once. “ What shall I 
sing? ” 

Hugh was all ear now. 

“ Something sacred, if you please.” 

Euphra hesitated, but not long. 

“ Shall I sing Mozart’s c Agnus Dei,’ then ? ” 

Lady Emily hesitated in her turn. 

II I should prefer something else. I don’t approve of sing- 
ing popish music, however beautiful it may be.”~ 

“ Well, what shall it be ? ” 

“ Something of Handel or Mendelssohn, please. Do you 
sing, 4 1 know that my Redeemer liveth ’ ? ” 

“ I dare say I can sing it,” replied Euphra, with some petu- 
lance, and went to the piano. 

This was a favorite air with Hugh ; and he placed himself 
so as to see the singer without being seen himself, and to lose 
no slightest modulation of her voice. But what was his dis- 
appointment to find that oratorio-music was just what Euphra 
was incapable of ! No doubt she sang it quite correctly ; but 
there was no religion in it. Not a single tone worshipped or 
rejoiced. The quality of sound necessary to express the 
feeling and thought of the composer was lacking ; the palace 
of sound was all right constructed, but of wrong material. 
Euphra, however, w T as quite unconscious of failure. She did 
not care for the music ; but she attributed her lack of interest 
:n it to the music itself, never dreaming that, in fact, she had 
never really heard it, having no inner ear for its deeper 
harmonies. As soon as she had finished, Lndy Emily thanked 
ler, but did not praise her more than by saying : — 

“ I wish I had a voice like yours, Miss Cameron.” 

11 1 dare say you have a better of your own,” said Euphra. 
falsely. 

Lady Emily laughed. 

“ It is the poorest little voice you ever heard ; yet I confess 
14 


210 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


I am glad, for my own sake, that I have even that What 
should I do if I never heard Handel !” 

Every simple mind has a little well of beauty somewhere in 
its precincts, which flows and warbles, even when the owner is 
unheedful. The religion of Lady Emily had led her into a 
region far beyond the reach of her intellect, in which there 
sprang a constant fountain of sacred song. To it she owed her 
highest moods. # 

“Then Handel is your musician?” said Euphra. “You 
should not have put me to such a test. It was very unfair of 
you, Lady Emily.” 

Lady Emily laughed, as if quite amused at the idea of hav- 
ing done Euphra any wrong. Euphra added : — 

“You must sing now, Lady Emily. You cannot refuse, 
after the admission you have just made.” 

“ I confess it is only fair ; but I warn you to expect nothing.” 
She took her place at the piano, and sang, “ He shall feed 
jig flock.” Her health had improved so much during her so- 
journ at Arnstead, that when she began to sing, the quantity 
of her voice surprised herself; but, after all, it was a poor voice, 
and the execution, if clear of any great faults, made no other 
pretence to merit. Yet she effected the end of the music, the 
very result which every musician would most desire, wherein 
Euphra had failed utterly. This was worthy of note, and 
Huodi was not even yet too blind to perceive it. Lady Emily, 
with very ordinary intellect, and paltry religious opinions , 
yet because she was good herself, and religious, could, in the 
reproduction of the highest kind of music, greatly surpass the 
spirited, intellectual musician, whose voice was as superior to 
hers as a nightingale’s to a sparrow’s, and whose knowledge of 
music, and musical power generally, surpassed hers beyond all 
comparison. 

It must be allowed for Euphra, that she seemed to have 
gained some perception of the fact. Perhaps she had seen 
signs of emotion in Hugh’s face, which he had shaded with his 
hand as Lady Emily sang ; or perhaps the singing produced 
in her a feeling which she had not had when singing herself. 
All I know is, that the same night — while Hugh was walking 
up and down his room, meditating on this defect of Euphra’s, 
and yet feeling that if sLe could sing only devil’s music, he must 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


211 


love her — a tap came to the door, which made him start with 
the suggestion of the former mysterious noises of a similar 
kind ; that he sprang to the door ; and that, instead of looking 
out on a vacant corridor, as he all but anticipated, he saw 
Euphra standing there in the dark, who said in a whisper : — ■ 

“ Ah! you do not love me any longer, because Lady Emily 
can sing psalms better than lean ! ” 

There was both pathos and spite in the speech. 

“ Come in, Euphra.” 

“No. I am afraid I have been very naughty in coming here 
at all.” 

“ Do come in. I want you to tell me something about 
Funkelstein.” 

“ What do you want to know about him? I suppose you are 
jealous of him. Ah ! you men can both be jealous and make 
jealous at the same moment.” A little broken sigh followed. 
Hugh answered : — 

“ I only want to know what he is.” 

“ Oh ! some twentieth cousin of mine.” 

“ Mr. Arnold does not know that? ” 

“Oh, dear, no ! It is so far off I can’t count it. In fact, I 
doubt it altogether. It must date centuries back.” 

“ His intimacy, then, is not to be accounted for by his rela- 
tionship? ” 

“ Ah ! ah ! I thought so. Jealous of the poor count ! ” 

“ Count? ” 

“ Oh, dear ! what does it matter ? He doesn’t like to be called 
count , because all foreigners are counts or barons, or some- 
thing equally distinguished. I oughtn’t to have let it out.” 

“ Never mind. Tell me something about him.” 

“He is a Bohemian. I met him first, some years ago, on 
the continent.” 

“Then that was not your first meeting, — at Sir Edward 
Laston’s ? " 

“No.” 

1 How candid she is ! ” thought Hugh. 

“ He calls me his cousin ; but if he be mine, he is yet more 
Mr. Arnold’s. But he does not want it mentioned yet. I 
tm sure I don’t know why.” 

“ Is he in love with you ? ” 


212 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“How can I tell? ” she answered, archly. “By his being 
very jealous? Is that the way to know whether a man is 
in love with one ? But if he is in love with me. it does not 
follow that I am in love with him, — does it? Confess. Am 
I not very good to answer all your impertinent downright 
questions ? They are as point blank as the church catechism, — 
mind, I don’t say as rude. How can I be in love with two 
at — a — ? ” 

She seemed to check herself. But Hugh had heard enough 
— as she had intended he should. She turned instantly, and 
sped, surrounded by the “ low, melodious thunder,” of her 
silken garments, to her own door, where she vanished noise- 
lessly. 

“ What care I for oratorios? ” said Hugh to himself, as he 
put the light out, towards morning. 

Where was all this to end ? What goal had Hugh set him- 
self ? Could he not go away, and achieve renown in one of 
many ways, and return fit, in the eyes of the world, to claim 
the hand of Miss Cameron ? But would he marry her if he 
could? He would not answer the question. He closed the 
ears of his heart to it, and tried to go to sleep. He slept, 
and dreamed of Margaret in the storm. 

A few days passed without anything occurring sufficiently 
marked for relation. Euphra and he seemed satisfied without 
meeting in private. Perhaps both were afraid of carrying it 
too far ; at least, too far to keep clear of the risk of discovery, 
seeing that danger was at present greater than usual. Mr. 
Arnold continued to be thoroughly attentive to his guests, and 
became more and more devoted to Lady Emily. There was 
no saying where it might end ; for he was not an old man yet, 
and Lady Emily appeared to have no special admirers. Arn- 
stead was such an abode, and surrounded w r ith such an estate, 
as few even of the nobility could call their own. And a remi- 
niscence of his first wife seemed to haunt all Mr. Arnold’s con- 
templations of Lady Emily, and all his attentions to her. These 
were delict, te in the extreme, evidently bringing out the best 
life that ye t remained in a heart that was almost a fossil. Hugh 
made some fresh efforts to do his duty by Harry, and so far 
succeeded, that at least the boy made some progress — evident 
enough to the moderate expectations of his father. But what 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


218 


helped Harry as much as anything was the motherly kind- 
ness, even tenderness, of good Mrs. Elton, who often had him 
to sit with her in her own room. To her he generally fled for 
refuge, when he felt deserted and lonely. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

MATERIALISM alias GHOST-HUNTING. 

Wie der Mond sich leuchtend drangefc 
Durch den dunkeln Wolkenflor, 

Also taucht aus dunkeln Zeiten 
Mir ein lichtes Bild hervor. 

Heinrich Heine, 

As the moon her face advances 

Through the darkened cloudy veil ; 

So, from darkened times arising, 

Dawns on me a vision pale. 

In consequence of what Euphra had caused him to believe 
irithout saying it, Hugh felt more friendly towards his new 
acquaintance ; and happening — on his side at least it did hap - 
yen — to meet him a few days after, walking in the neighbor- 
hood, he joined him in a stroll. Mr. Arnold met them on 
horseback, and invited Yon Funkelstein to dine with them 
that evening, to which he willingly consented. It was no- 
ticeable that no sooner was the count within the doors of Arn- 
stead House, than he behaved with cordiality to every one of 
the company except Hugh. With him he made no approach 
to familiarity of any kind, treating him, on the contrary, with 
studious politeness. 

In the course of the dinner, Mr. Arnold said : — 

“It is curious, Herr von Eunkelstein, how often, if you 
meet with something new to you, you fall in with it again al- 
most immediately. I found an article on biology in the 
newspaper, the very day after our conversation on the subject. 
But absurd as the whole thing is, it is quite surpassed by a 
letter in to-day’s ‘ Times ’ about spirit-rapping and mediums, 
and what not ! ” 


214 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


This observation of the host at once opened the whole ques- 
tion of those physico-psychological phenomena to which the 
name of spiritualism has been so absurdly applied. Mr. Ar- 
nold was profound in his contempt of the whole system, if not 
very profound in his arguments against it. Every one had 
something to remark in opposition to the notions which 
were so rapidly gaining ground in the country, except Funk- 
elstein, who maintained a rigid silence. 

This silence could not continue long without attracting the 
attention of the rest of the party ; upon which Mr. Arnold 

“ You have not given us your opinion on the subject, Herr 
von Funkelstein.” 

“ I have not, Mr. Arnold; I should not like to encounter 
the opposition of so many fair adversaries, as well as of my 
host.” 

“ We are in England, sir ; and every man is at liberty to 
say what he thinks. For my part, I think it all absurd, if 
not improper.” 

“ I would not willingly differ from you, Mr. Arnold. And 
I confess that a great deal that finds its way into the public 
prints does seem very ridiculous indeed ; but I am bound, for 
truth’s sake, to say, that I have seen more than I can account 
for, in that kind of thing. There are strange stories connected 
with my own family, which, perhaps, incline me to believe in 
the supernatural ; and, indeed, without making the smallest 
pretence to the dignity of what they call a medium , I have 
myself had some curious experiences. I fear I have some 
natural proclivity towards what you despise. But I beg that 
my statement of my own feelings on the subject may not in- 
terfere in the least with the prosecution of the present conver- 
sation ; for I am quite capable of drawing pleasure from listen- 
ing to what I am unable to agree with.” 

“But let us hear your arguments, strengthened by your 
facts, in opposition to ours : for it will be impossible to talk 
with a silent judge amongst us,” Hugh ventured to say. 

“ I set up for no judge, Mr. Sutherland, I assure you ; and 
perhaps I shall do my opinions more justice by remaining si- 
lent, seeing I am conscious of utter inability to answer the 
a priori arguments which you in particular have brought 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


215 


against them. All I would venture to saj is, that an a pri- 
ori argument may owe its force to a mistaken hypothesis with 
regard to the matter in question ; and that the true Baconian 
method, which is the glory of your English philosophy, would 
be to inquire first what the thing is, by recording observa- 
tions and experiments made in its supposed direction.” 

“ At least Herr von Funkelstein has the best of the argu- 
ment now, I am compelled to confess,” said Hugh. 

Funkelstein bowed stiffly, and was silent. 

“ You rouse our curiosity,” said Mr. Arnold ; “ but I fear, 
after the free utterance which we have already given to our 
own judgments, in ignorance, of course, of your greater ex- 
perience, you will not be inclined to make us wiser by com- 
municating any of the said experience, however much we may 
desire to hear it.” 

Had he been speaking to one of less evident social standing 
than Funkelstein, Mr. Arnold, if dying with curiosity, would 
not have expressed the least wish to be made acquainted with 
his experiences. He would have sat in apparent indifference, 
but in real anxiety that some one else would draw him out, 
and thus gratify his curiosity without endangering his dig- 
nity. 

“ I do not think,” replied Funklestein, “ that it is of any 
use to bring testimony to bear on such a matter. I have seen, 
— to use the words of some one else, I forget whom, on a sim- 
ilar subject, — I have seen with my own eyes what I certainly 
should never have believed on the testimony of another. Con- 
sequently, I have no right to expect that my testimony should 
be received. Besides, I do not wish it to be received, although 
I confess I shrink from presenting it with a certainty of its 
being rejected. I have no wish to make converts to my opin- 
ions.” 

“ Eeally, Herr von Funkelstein, at the risk of your consid- 
ering me importunate, I would beg — ” 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Arnold. The recital of some of the mat- 
ters to which you refer, would not only be painful to myself, 
but would be agitating to the ladies present.”* 

“ In that case, I have only to beg your paydQn for pressing 
the matter,— I hope no further fhan to fhp V?V9, e of incivil- 
ity.” 


216 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ In no degree approaching it, I assure you, Mr. Arnold. 
In proof that I do not think so, I am ready, if you wish it, — • 
although I rather dread the possible effects on the nerves of 
the ladies, especially as this is an old house, — to repeat, with 
the aid of those present, certain experiments which I have 
somtimes found perhaps only too successful.” 

“ Oh ! don’t,” said Euphra, faintly. 

An expression of the opposite desire followed, however, from 
the other ladies. Their curiosity seemed to strive with their 
fears, and to overcome them. 

“ I hope toe shall have nothing to do with it in any other 
way than merely as spectators? ” said Mrs. Elton. 

“ Nothing more than you please. It is doubtful if you can 
even be spectators. That remains to be seen.” 

“ Good gracious ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Elton. 

Lady Emily looked at her with surprise — almost reproof. 

“ I beg your pardon, my dear ; but it sounds so dreadful. 
What can it be ? ” 

“ Let me entreat you, ladies, not to imagine that I am urg- 
ing you to anything,” said Funkelstein. 

“ Not in the least,” replied Mrs. Elton. “ I was very fool- 
ish.” And the old lady looked ashamed, and was silent. 

“ Then, if you will allow me, I will make one small prepa- 
iation. Have you a tool-chest anywhere, Mr. Arnold? ” 

11 There must be tools enough about the place, I know. I 
will ring for Atkins.” 

“ I know where the tool-chest is,” said Hugh ; “ and, if you 
will allow me a suggestion, would it not be better the ser- 
vants should know nothing about this ? There are some fool- 
ish stories afloat amongst them already.” 

“ A very proper suggestion, Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. 
Arnold, graciously. “Will you find all that is wanted, 
then ? ” 

“ What tools do you want ? ” asked Hugh. 

“ Only a small drill. Could you get me an earthenware 
plate — not china — too ? ” 

“ I will manage that,” said Euphra. 

Hugh soon returned with the drill, and Euphra with the 
plate. The J?ohenpap, ’jvith some difficulty, and the remark 
that the English ware was very hard, drilled a small hole in 


DAVID ELGINBRCD. 


217 


the rim of the plate, — a dinner-plate ; then begging an H. B. 
drawing-pencil from Miss Cameron, cut off a small piece, and 
fitted it into the hole, making it just long enough to touch the 
table with its point when the plate lay in its ordinary position. 

“Now I am ready,” said he. “But,” he added, raising 
his head, and looking all round the room, as if a sudden 
thought had struck him, “I do not think this room will be 
quite satisfactory.” 

They were now in the drawing-room. 

“ Choose the room in the house that will suit you,” said 
Mr. Arnold. “ The dining-room ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” answered Funkelstein, as he took from his 
watch-chain a small compass and laid it on the table. “ Not 
the dining-room, nor the breakfast-room — I think. Let me 
see — how is it situated?” He went to the hall, as if to 
refresh his memory, and then looked again at the compass. 
“No, not the breakfast-room.” 

Hugh could not help thinking there was more or less of the 
charlatan about the man. 

“ The library ? ” suggested Lady Emily. 

They adjourned to the library to see. The library would 
do. After some further difficulty, they succeeded in procuring 
a large sheet of paper and fastening it down to the table by 
drawing-pins. Only two candles were in the great room, and 
it was scarcely lighted at all by them ; yet Funkelstein 
requested that one of these should be extinguished, and the 
other removed to a table near the door. He then said, 
solemnly : — 

“ Let me request silence, absolute silence, and quiescence 
of thought even.” 

After stillness had settled down with outspread wings of in- 
tensity, he resumed : — 

“ Will any one, or, better, two of you, touch the p late as 
lightly as possible with your fingers ? ” 

All hung back for a moment. Then Mr. Arnold came 
forward. 

“ I will,” said he, and laid his fingers on the plate. 

“ As lightly as possible, if you please. If the plate moves, 
follow it with your fingers, but be sure not to push it in any 
direction.” 


218 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ 1 understand,” said Mr. Arnold ; and silence fell again. 

The Bohemian, after a pause, spoke once more, but in a 
foreign tongue. The words sounded first like entreaty, then 
like command, and, at last, almost like imprecation. The ladies 
shuddered. 

11 Any movement of the vehicle? ” said he to Mr. Arnold. 

“If by the vehicle you mean the plate, certainly not,” said 
Mr. Arnold, solemnly. But the ladies were very glad of the 
pretext for attempting a laugh, in order to get rid of the op- 
pression which they had felt for some time. 

“ Hush ! ” said Funkelstein, solemnly. “Will no one else 
touch the plate as well ? It will seldom move with one. It 
does with me. But I fear I might be suspected of treachery, 
if I offered to join Mr. Arnold.” 

“ Do not hint at such a thing. You are beyond suspicion.” 

What ground Mr. Arnold had for making such an assertion 
was no better known to himself than to any one else present. 
Yon Funkelstein, without another word, put the fingers of one 
hand lightly on the plate beside Mr. Arnold’s. The plate 
instantly began to move upon the paper. The motion was a 
succession of small jerks at first ; but soon it tilted up a little, 
and moved upon a changing point of support. Now it careered 
rapidly in wavy lines, sweeping back towards the other side, as 
often as it approached the extremity of the sheet, the men 
keeping their fingers in contact with it, but not appearing to 
influence its motion. Gradually the motion ceased. Yon 
Funkelstein withdrew his hand, and requested that the other 
candle should be lighted. The paper was taken up and ex- 
amined. Nothing could be discovered upon it but a labyrintl 
of wavy and sweepy lines. Funkelstein pored over it for some 
minutes, and then confessed his inability to make a single letter 
out of it, still less words and sentences, as he had expected. 

“But,” said he, “we are at least so far successful: it 
moves. Let us try again. Who will try next ? ” 

“ I will,” said Hugh, who had refrained at first, partly from 
dislike to the whole affair, partly because he shrank from 
putting himself forward. 

A new sheet of paper was fixed. The candle was extin- 
guished. Hugh put his fingers on the plate. In a second or 
two, it began to move. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


219 


' ' A ihodiam ! ” murmured Funkelstein. He then spoke 
aloud some words unintelligible to the rest. 

Whether from the peculiarity of his position and the consequent 
excitement of his imagination, or from some other cause, Hugh 
grew quite cold, and began to tremble. The plate, which had 
been careering violently for a few moments, now went more 
slowly, making regular short motions and returns, at right 
angles to its chief direction, as if letters were being formed by 
tbe pencil. Hugh shuddered, thinking he recognized the 
letters as they grew. The writing ceased. The candles were 
brought. Yes ; there it was ! — not plain, but easily decipher- 
able — David Elginbrod. Hugh felt sick. 

Euphra, looking on beside him, whispered : 

“ What an odd name ! Who can it mean? ” 


He made no reply. ^ , , 

Neither of the other ladies saw it; for Mrs. Elton had 
discovered, the moment the second candle was lighted, that 
Lady Emily was either asleep or in a faint. She was soon all 
but satisfied that she was asleep. 

Hugh’s opinion, gathered from what followed, was, that the 
Bohemian had not been so intent on the operations with the 
plate, as he had appeared to be ; and that he had been employing 
part of his energy in mesmerizing Lady Emily. Mrs. Elton, 
remembering that she had had quite a long walk that morning, 
was not much alarmed. Unwilling to make a disturbance, she 
rang the bell very quietly, and, going to the door, asked the 
servant who answered it to send her maid with some eau-cle 
cologne. Meantime, the gentlemen had been too much absorbed 
to take any notice of her proceedings, and, after removing the 
one and extinguishing the other candle, had reverted to the 
plate. Hugh was still the operator. 

Yon Funkelstein spoke again in an unknown tongue, lhe 
plate bc^an to move as before. After only a second or two of 
preparatory gyration, Hugh felt that it was writing Turne- 
puffit, and shook from head to foot. 

Suddenly in the middle of the word, the plate ceased its 
motion, and lay perfectly still. Hugh felt a kind of surprise 
come upon him, as if he waked from an unpleasant dream, and 
saw the sun shining. The morbid excitement of his nervous 


220 


DAVID ELG1NBRQD. 


Bystem had suddenly ceased, and a healthful sense of strength 
and every-day life took its place. 

Simultaneously with the stopping of the plate, and this new 
feeling which I have tried to describe, Hugh involuntarily 
raised his eyes towards the door of the room. In the all-but- 
darkness between him and the door, he saw a pale, beautiful 
face, — a face only. It was the face of Margaret Elginbrod ; 
not, however, such as he had used to see it — but glorified. 
That was the only word by which he could describe its new 
aspect. A mist of darkness fell upon his brain, and the room 
swam round with him. But he was saved from falling, or at- 
tracting attention to a weakness for which he could have made 
no excuse, by a sudden cry from Lady Emily. 

“ See ! see ! ” she cried, wildly, pointing towards one of the 
windows. 

These looked across to another part of the house, one of the 
oldest, at some distance. One of its windows, apparently on 
the first floor, shone with a faint bluish light. 

All the company had hurried to the window at Lady 
Emily’s exclamation. 

“ Who can be in that part of the house ? ” said Mr. Arnold, 
angrily. 

‘‘It is Lady Euphrasia’s window,” said Euphra, in a low 
voice, the tone of which suggested, somehow, that the speaker 
was very cold. 

“ What do you mean by speaking like that ? ” said Mr. Ar- 
nold, forgetting his dignity. “Surely you are above being 
superstitious. Is it possible the servants could be about any 
mischief? I will discharge any one at once that dares go 
there without permission.” 

The light disappeared, fading slowly out. 

“Indeed, the servants are all too much alarmed, after what 
took place last year, to go near that wing — much less that 
room,” said Euphra. “Besides, Mrs. Horton has all the 
keys in her own charge.” 

“ Go yourself and get me them, Euphra. I will see at once 
what this means. Don’t say why you ^\ant them.” 

“Certainly not, ancle.” 

Hugh had recovered almost instantaneously. Though full 
of amazement, he had yet his perceptive faculties sufficiently 


DAVID EIQINBROD. 


221 


unimpaired to recognize the real source of the light in the win- 
dow. It seemed to him more like moonlight than anything 
else ; and he thought the others would have seen it to be sucfq 
but for the effect of Lady Emily’s sudden exclamation. Per- 
haps she was under the influence of the Bohemian at the mo- 
ment. Certainly they were all in a tolerable condition for 
seeing whatever might be required of them. True, there was 
no moon to be seen ; and if it was the moon, why did the light 
go out ? But he found afterwards that he had been right. 
The house stood upon a rising ground ; and, every recurring 
cycle, the moon would shine, through a certain vista of trees 
and branches, upon Lady Euphrasia’ s window ; provided there 
had been no growth of twigs to stop up the channel of the 
light, which was so narrow that in a few moments the moon 
had crossed it. A gap in a hedge, made by a bull that morn- 
ing, had removed the last screen. Lady Euphrasia’s window 
was so neglected and dusty, that it could reflect nothing more 
than a dim bluish shimmer. 

4 4 Will you all accompany me, ladies and gentlemen, that 
you may see with your own eyes that there is nothing danger- 
ous in the house? ” said Mr. Arnold. 

Of course Funkelstein was quite ready, and Hugh as well, 
although he felt at this moment ill-fitted for ghost-hunting. 
The ladies hesitated ; but at last, more afraid of being left 
behind alone than of going with the gentlemen, they consented. 
Euphra brought the keys, and they commenced their march of 
investigation. Up the grand staircase they went, Mr. Arnold 
first with the keys, Hugh next with Mrs. Elton and Lady 
Emily, and the Bohemian, considerably to Hugh’s dissatisfac- 
tion, bringing up the rear with Euphra. This misarrange- 
ment did more than anything else could have done, to deaden 
for the time the distraction of feeling produced in Hugh’s 
mind by the events of the last few minutes. Yet even now he 
seemed to be wandering through the old house in a dream, in- 
stead of following Mr. Arnold, whose presence might well 
have been sufficient to destroy any illusion, except such as a 
Chinese screen might superinduce ; for, possessed of far less 
imagination than a horse, he was incapable of any terrors, but 
such as had to do with robbers, or fire, or chartists, — which 
latter fear included both the former. He strode on securely, 


222 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


carrying a candle in one hand, and the keys in the other. 
Each of the other gentlemen likewise bore a light. They had 
to go through various doors, some locked, some open, following 
a different route from that taken by Euphra on a former occa- 
sion. 

But Mr. Arnold found the keys troublesome. He could not 
easily distinguish those he wanted, and was compelled to apply 
to Euphra. She left Funkelstein in consequence, and walked 
in front with her uncle. Her former companion got beside 
Lady Emily, and as they could not well walk four abreast, she 
fell behind with him. So Hugh got next to Euphra, behind 
her, and was comforted. 

At length, by tortuous ways, across old rooms, and up and 
down abrupt little stairs, they reached the door of Lady Eu- 
phrasia’ s room. The key was found, and the door opened with 
some perturbation, — manifest on the part of the ladies, and 
concealed on the part of the men. The place was quite dark. 
They entered ; and Hugh was greatly struck with its strange 
antiquity. Lady Euphrasia’s ghost had driven the last oc- 
cupant out of it nearly a hundred years ago ; but most of 
the furniture was much older than that, having probably be- 
longed to Lady Euphrasia herself. The room remained just 
as the said last occupant had left it. Even the bedclothes re- 
mained, folded down, as if expecting their occupant for the 
last hundred years. The fine linen had grown yellow ; and 
the rich counterpane lay like a church-yard after the resurrec- 
tion, full of the open graves of the liberated moths. On the 
wall hung the portrait of a nun in convent-attire. 

“ Some have taken that for a second portrait of Lady Eu- 
phrasia,” said Mr. Arnold; “ but it cannot be. — Euphra, we 
will go back through the picture gallery. — I suspect it of orig- 
inating the tradition that Lady Euphrasia became a nun at 
last. I do not believe it myself. The picture is certainly old 
enough to stand for her, but it does not seem to me in the 
least like the other.” 

It was a great room, with large recesses, and therefore ir- 
regular in form. Old chairs, with remnants of enamel and 
wilding, and seats of faded damask, stood all about. But the 
Ceauty of the chamber was its tapestry. The walls were en- 
tirely covered with it, and the rich colors had not yet receded 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


223 


into the dull gray of the past, though their gorgeousness had 
become sombre with age. The subject was the story of Sam- 
son. 

“ Come and see this strange piece of furnituio,” said Eu- 
phra to Hugh, who had kept by her side since they entered 
this room. 

She led him into one of the recesses, almost concealed by 
the bed-hangings. In it stood a cabinet of ebony, reaching 
nearly to the ceiling, curiously carved in high relief. 

“ 1 wish I could show you the inside of it,” she went on, 
“ but I cannot now.” 

This was said almost in a whisper. Hugh replied with only 
a look of thanks. He gazed at the carving, on whose black 
surface his candle made little light, and threw no shadows. 

“ You have looked at this before, Euphra,” said he. “ Ex- 
plain it to me.” 

“I have often tried to find out what it is,” she answered; 
“but I never could quite satisfy myself about it.” 

She proceeded, however, to tell him what she fancied it 
might mean, speaking still in the low tone which seemed suita- 
ble to the awe of the place. She got interested in showing 
him the relations of the different figures ; and he made sev- 
eral suggestions as to the possible intention of the artist. 
More than one well-known subject was proposed and rejected. 

Suddenly becoming aware of the sensation of silence, they 
looked up, and saw that theirs was the only light in the room. 
They were left alone in the haunted chamber. They looked 
at each other for one moment, then said, with half-stifled 
voices : — 

“ Euphra ! ” 

“Hugh!” 

Euphra seemed half amused and half perplexed. Hugh 
looked half perplexed and wholly pleased. 

“ Come, come,” said Euphra, recovering herself, and lead- 
ing the way to the door. 

When they reached it, they found it closed and locked. 
Euphra raised her hand to beat on it. Hugh caught it. 

“You will drive Lady Emily into fits. Did you not see 
how awfully pale she was ? ” 

Euphra instantly lifted her hand again, as if she would just 


224 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


like to try that result. But Hugh, who was in no haste for 
any result, held her back. 

She struggled for a moment or two, but not very stren- 
uously, and, desisting all at once, let her arms drop by her 
sides. 

4 4 1 fear it is too late. This is a double door, and Mr. 
Arnold will have locked all the doors between this and the 
picture-gallery. They are there now. What shall we do ? ” 

She said this with an expression of comical despair, which 
would have made Hugh burst into laughter, had he not been 
too much pleased to laugh. 

44 Never mind,” he said, 44 we will go on with our study of 
the cabinet. They will soon find out that we are left behind, 
and come back to look for us.” 

44 Yes, but only fancy being found here ! ” 

She laughed ; but the laugh did not succeed. It could not 
hide a real embarrassment. She pondered, and seemed irres- 
olute. Then, with the words, “They will say we stayed 
behind on purpose,” she moved her hand to the door, but 
again withdrew it, and stood irresolute. 

44 Let us put out the light,” said Hugh, laughing, 44 and 
make no answer.” 

44 Can you starve well ? ” 

44 With you.” 

She murmured something to herself; then said aloud and 
hastily, as if she had made up her mind by the compulsion of 
circumstances : — 

44 But this won’t do, They are still looking at the portrait, 
I dare say. Come.” 

So saying, she went into another recess, and, lifting a 
curtain of tapestry, opened a door. 

44 Come quick,” she said. 

Hugh followed her down a short stair into a narrow passage, 
nowhere lighted from the outside. The door went to behind 
them, as if some one had banged it in anger at their intrusion. 
The passage smelt very musty, and was as quiet as death. 

44 Not a word of this, Hugh, as you love me. It may be 
useful yet.” 

44 Not a word ” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


22 .' 


They came through a sliding panel into an empty room 
Euphra closed it behind them. 

“Now shade your light.” 

He did so. She took him by the hand. A few more turns 
brought them in sight of the lights of the rest of the party. 
As Euphra had conjectured, they were looking at the picture 
of Lady Euphrasia, Mr. Arnold prosing away to them, in 
proof that the nun could not be she. They entered the 
gallery without being heard; and parting a little way, one 
pretending to look at one picture, the other at another, crept 
gradually round till they joined the group. It was a piece 01 
most successful generalship. Euphra was, doubtless, quite 
prepared with her story in case it should fail. 

“ Dear Lady Emily,” said she, “ how tired you look ! Di 
let us go, uncle.” 

“ By ail means. Take my arm, Lady Emily. Euphra, 
will you take the keys again, and lock the doors ? ” 

Mrs. Elton had already taken Hugh’s arm, and was leading 
him away after Mr. Arnold and Lady Emily. 

u I will not leave you behind with the spectres, Misa Cam- 
eron,” said Eunkelstein. 

“ Thank you; they will not detain me long. They don’t 
mind being locked up.” 

It was some little time, however, before they presented 
themselves in the drawir g-room, to which, and not to the 
library, the party had goue : they had had enough of horrors 
for that night. 

Lest my readers should think they have had too many 
wonders at least, I will explain one of them. It w T as really 
Margaret Elginbrod whom Hugh had seen. Mrs. Elton was 
the lady in whose service she had left her home. It was 
nothing strange that they had not met, for Margaret knew 
he was in the same house, and had several times seen him, but 
had avoided meeting him. Neither was it a wonderful coinci- 
dence that they should be in such close proximity ; for the 
college friend from whom Hugh had first heard of Mr. Arnold, 
was the son of the gentleman whom Mrs. Elton was visiting, 
when she first saw Margaret. 

Margaret bad obeyed her mistress’ summons to the draw- 
ing-room, and had entered while Hugh was stooping over the 

15 


426 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


plate. As the room was nearly dark, and she was dressed in 
black, her pale face alone caught the light and his eye as he 
looked up, and the giddiness which followed had prevented him 
from seeing more. She left the room the next moment, while 
they were all looking out of the window. Nor was it any 
exercise of his excited imagination that had presented her face 
as glorified. She was now a woman ; and, there being no 
divine law against saying so, I say that she had grown a lady 
as well ; as indeed any one might have foreseen who was capa- 
ble of foreseeing it. Her whole nature had blossomed into a 
still, stately, lily-like beauty; and the face that Hugh saw 
was indeed the realized idea of the former face of Margaret. 

But how did the plate move ? and whence came the writing 
of old David’s name ? I must, for the present, leave the whole 
matter to the speculative power of each of my readers. 

But Margaret was in mourning. Was David indeed dead? 

He was dead. Yet his name will stand as the name of my 
story for pages to come ; because, if he had not been in it, the 
story would never have been worth writing ; because the in- 
fluence of that ploughman is the salt of the whole ; because a 
man’s life in the earth is not to be measured by the time he is 
visible upon it ; and because, when the story is wound up, it 
will be in the presence of his spirit. 

Do I then believe that David himself did write that name 
of his ? 

Heaven forbid that any friend of mine should be able to be- 
lieve it ! 

Long before she saw him, Margaret had known, from what 
she heard among the servants, that Master Harry’s tutor could 
be no other than her own tutor of the old time. By and by 
she learned a great deal about him from Harry’s talk with 
Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily. But she did no? give the least 
hint that she knew him, or betray the least desire to see him. 

Mrs. Elton was amusingly bewildered by the occurrences 
of the evening. Her theories were something astounding ; 
and followed one another with such alarming rapidity, that had 
they been in themselves such as to imply the smallest exercise 
of the thinking faculty, she might well have been considered in 
danger of an attack of brain fever. As it was, none such 
supervened. Lady Emily said nothing, but seemed unhappy. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


2^7 


As for Hugh, he simply could not tell what to make of the 
writing But he did not for a moment doubt that the vision 
he had seen was only a vision, — a home-made ghost, sent out 
from his own creative brain. Still he felt that Margaret’s 
face, come whence it might, was a living reproof to him ; for 
he was losing his life in passion, sinking deeper in it day by 
day. His powers were deserting him. Poetry, usually sup- 
posed to be the attendant of love, had deserted him. Only by 
Sts could he see anything beautiful ; and then it was but in 
closest association of thought with the one image which was burn- 
ing itself deeper and deeper into his mental sensorium. Come 
what might, he could not tear it away. It had become a part of 
himself, — of his inner life, — even while it seemed to be 
working the death of life. Deeper and deeper it would burn, 
till it reached the innermost chamber of life. Let it burn. 

Yet he felt that he could not trust her. Vague hopes he 
had, that, by trusting, she might be made trustworthy ; but he 
feared they were vain as well as vague. And yet he would 
not cast them away, for he could not cast her away. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

MORE MATERIALISM AND SOME SPIRITUALISM. 


God wisheth none should wreck on a strange shelf : 

To Him man’s dearer than to himself. 

Ben Jonson. — The Forest: To Sir Robert Wroth. 

At breakfast the following morning, the influences of the 
past day on the family were evident. There was a good deal 
of excitement, alternated with listlessness. The moral atmos* 
phere seemed unhealthy; and Harry, although he had, fortu- 
nately for him, had nothing to do with the manifestations of 
the previous evening, was affected by the condition of those 
around him. Hugh was still careful enough of him to try to 
divert the conversation entirely from what he knew would have 
a very injurious effect uporw him ; and Mr. Arnold, seeing the 


228 


DAVID ELGINBROI). 


anxious way in which he glanced now and then at his pupil, 
and divining the reason, by the instinct of his affection, with 
far more than his usual acuteness, tried likewise to turn it 
aside, as often as it inclined that way. Still a few words were 
let fall by the visitors, which made Harry stare. Hugh took 
him away as soon as breakfast was over. 

In the afternoon, Funkelstein called to inquire after the 
ladies ; and hoped he had no injury to their health to lay on 
his conscience. Mr. Arnold, who had a full allowance of 
curiosity, its amount being frequently in an inverse ratio to 
that of higher intellectual gifts, begged him to spend the rest 
of the day with them; but not to say a word of what had 
passed the day before, till after Harry had retired for the 

night. . 

Renewed conversation led to renewed experiments in the 
library. Hugh, however, refused to have anything more to 
do with the plate-writing ; for he dreaded its influence on his 
physical nature, attributing, as I have said, the vision of 
Margaret to a cerebral affection. And the plate did not seem 
to work satisfactorily with any one else, except Funkelstein, 
who, for his part, had no great wish to operate. Recourse 
was had to a more vulgar method, that of expectant solicita- 
tion of those noises whereby the prisoners in the aerial vaults 
are supposed capable of communicating with those in this 
earthly cell. Certainly, raps were heard from some quarter or 
another ; and when the lights were extinguished, and the cres- 
cent moon only allowed to shine in the room, some commotion 
was discernible amongst the furniture. Several light articles 
flew about. A pen-wiper alighted on Euphra’s lap, and a 
sofa-pillow gently disarranged Mrs. Elton’s cap. Most of the 
artillery, however, was directed against Lady Emily ; and she 
it was who saw, in a faint stream of moonlight, a female arm 
uplifted towards her, from under a table, with a threatening 
motion. It was bare to the elbow, and draped above. It 
showed first a clenched fist, and next an open hand, palm out- 
wards, making a repellent gesture. Then the back of the 
hand was turned, and it motioned her away, as if she had been 
an importunate beggar. But at this moment, one of the 
doors opened, and a dark figure passed through the room 
towards the opposite door. Everything that could be called 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


229 


ghostly ceased instantaneously. The arm vanished. The 
company breathed more freely. 

Lady Emily, who had been on the point of going into hyster- 
ics, recovered herself, and overcame the still lingering impulse ; 
she felt as if she had awaked from a momentary aberration of 
the intellect. Mr. Arnold proceeded to light the candles, say- 
ing, in a righteous tone : — 

“ I think we have had enough of this nonsense.” 

When the candles were lighted, there was no one to be seen 
in the room besides themselves. Several, Hugh amongst them, 
had observed the figure ; but all had taken it for part of the 
illusive phantasmagoria. Hugh would have concluded it a 
variety of his vision of the former night ; but others had seen 
it as well as he. 

There was no renewal of the experiments that night. But 
all were in a very unhealthy state of excitement. Vague 
fear, vague wonder, and a certain indescribable oppression, had 
dimmed°for the time all the clearer vision, and benumbed all 
the nobler faculties of the soul. Lady Emily was affected the 
most. Her eyes looked scared ; there was a bright spot on 
one cheek amidst deathly paleness ; and she seemed very un- 
happy. Mrs. Elton became alarmed, and this brought her 
back to a more rational condition. She persuaded Lady 
Emily to go to bed. 

But the contagion spread ; and indistinct terrors were no 
longer confined to the upper portions of the family. The 
bruTt revived, which had broken out a year before, — that, the 
house was haunted. It was whispered that, the very night 
after these occurrences, the Ghost’s Walk had been in use as 
the name signified ; a figure in death-garments had been seen 
gliding along the deserted avenue, by one of the maid-ser- 
vants ; the truth of whose story was corroborated by the fact, 
that, to support it, she did not hesitate to confess that she had es- 
caped from the house, nearly at midnight, to meet one n the 
grooms in a part of the wood contiguous to the avenue in 
question. Mr. Arnold instantly dismissed her, — not on the 
ground of the intrigue, he took care to let her know, although 
that was bad enough, but because she was a fool, and spread 
absurd and annoying reports about the house. Mr. Arnold s 
usual hatred of what he called superstition was rendered yet 


230 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


more spiteful by the fact that the occurrences of the week had 
had such an effect on his own mind that he was mortally afraid 
lest he should himself sink into the same limbo of vanity. 
The girl, however, was, or pretended to be, quite satisfied with 
her discharge, protesting she would not have stayed for the 
worll; and as the groom, whose wages happened to have been 
paid the day before, took himself off the same evening, it may 
be hoped her satisfaction was not altogether counterfeit. 

“ If all tales be true,” said Mrs. Elton, “Lady Euphrasia 
is where she can’t get out.” 

“ But if she repented before she died? ” said Euphra, with 
a muffled scorn in her tone. 

“My dear Mrs. Cameron, do you call becoming a nun — 
repentance? We Protestants know very well what that 
means. Besides, your uncle does not believe it.” 

“Haven’t you found out yet, dear Mrs. Elton, what my 
uncle’s favorite phrase is? ” 

“No. What is it?” 

“ I don’t believe it” 

“ You naughty girl ! ” 

“ I’m not naughty,” answered Euphra, affecting to imi- 
tate the simplicity of a chidden child. My uncle is so fond of 
casting doubt upon everything ! If salvation goes by quan- 
tity, his faith won’t save him.” 

Euphra knew well enough that Mrs. Elton was no telltale. 
The good lady had hopes of her from this moment, because sho 
all but quoted Scripture to condemn her uncle ; the verdict 
corresponding with her own judgment of Mr. Arnold, founded 
on the clearest assertions of Scripture ; strengthened some- 
what, it must be confessed, by the fact that the spirits , on the 
preceding evening but one, had rapped out the sentence: 
“ Without faith it is impossible to please him.” 

Lady Emily was still in bed, but apparently more sick in 
mind than in body. She said she had tossed about all the pre- 
vious night without once falling asleep; and her maid, who 
had slept in the dressing-room without waking once, corrobo- 
rated the assertion. In the morning, Mrs. Elton, wishing to 
relieve the maid, sent Margaret to Lady Emily. Margaret 
arranged the bedclothes and pillows, which were in a very 
uncomfortable condition, sat down behind the curtain, and 


DAVID ELGINI3U0D. 


231 


knowing that it would please Lady Emily, began to sing, in 
what the French call a veiled voice , “The Land o* the Leal.’ , 
Now the air of this lovely song is the same as that of “ Scots 
wha hae ; ” but it is the pibroch of onset changed into the cor- 
onach of repose, singing of the land beyond the battle, of the 
entering in of those who have fought the good fight, and 
fallen in the field. It is the silence after the thunder. Be- 
fore she had finished, Lady Emily was fast asleep. A sweet, 
peaceful, half smile lighted her troubled face graciously, like 
the sunshine that creeps out when it can, amidst the rain of an 
autumn day, saying, “I am with you still, though we are all 
troubled.” Finding her thus at rest, Margaret left the room 
for a minute, to fetch some work. When she returned, she 
found her tossing and moaning, and apparently on the point 
of waking. As soon as she sat down by her, her trouble di- 
minished by degrees, till she lay in the same peaceful sleep as 
before. In this state she continued for two or three hours, 
and awoke much refreshed. She held out her little hand to 
Margaret, and said : — 

“Thank you. Thank you. What a sweet creature you 
are ! ” 

And Lady Emily lay and gazed in loving admiration at the 
face of the lady’s-maid. 

“ Shall I send Sarah to you now, my lady?” said Mar- 
garet ; “or would you like me to stay with you ? ” 

“ Oh ! you, you, please — if Mrs. Elton can spare you.” 

“ She will only think of your comfort, I know, my lady.” 

“ That recalls me to my duty, and makes me think of her.” 

“But your comfort will be more to her than anything 
else.” 

“In that case you must stay, Margaret.” 

“With pleasure, my lady.” 

Mrs, Elton entered, and quite confirmed what Margaret had 
said. 

“ But,” she added, “it is time Lady Emily had something 
to eat. Go to the cook, Margaret, and see if the beef tea 
Miss Cameron ordered is ready.” 

Margaret went. 

“ What a comfort it is,” said Mrs. Elton, wishing to inter- 
est Lady Emily, “that nowadays, when infidelity is so ram- 


232 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


pant, such corroborations of Sacred Writ are springing up on 
all sides ! There are the discoveries at Nineveh ; and now 
these Spiritual Manifestations, which bear witness so clearly 
to another world.” 

But Lady Emily made no reply. She began to toss about 
as before, and show signs of inexplicable discomfort. Mar- 
garet had hardly been gone two minutes, when the invalid 
moaned out : — 

“What a time Margaret is gone! — when will she be 
back ? ” 

“ I am here, my love,” said Mrs. Elton. 

“ Yes, yes; thank you. But I want Margaret.” 

“ She will be here presently. Have patience, my dear.” 

“ Please, don’t let Miss Cameron come near me. I am 
afraid I am very wicked, but I can’t bear her to come near 
me.” 

“No, no, dear; we will keep you to ourselves.” 

“Is Mr. , the foreign gentleman, I mean — below?” 

“No. He is gone.” 

“Are you sure? I can hardly believe it.” 

“ What do you mean, dear? I am sure he is gone.” 

Lady Emily did not answer. Margaret returned. She 
took the beef tea, and grew quiet again. 

“ You must not leave her ladyship, Margaret,” whispered 
her mistress. “ She has taken it into her head to like no one 
but you, and you must just stay with her.” 

“ Very well, ma’am.* I shall be most happy.” 

Mrs. Elton left the room. Lady Emily said : — 

“ Read something to me, Margaret.” 

“ What shall I read? ” 

“ Anything you like.” 

Margaret got a Bible, and read to her one of her father’s 
favorite chapters, the fortieth of Isaiah. 

“ I have no right to trust in God, Margaret.” 

“ Why, my lady? ” 

“ Because I do not feel any faith in him ; and you know w« 
cannot be accepted without faith.” 

“ That is to make God as changeable as we are, my lady.” 

“ But the Bible says so.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


233 


* c I don’t think it does ; but if an angel from heaven said so 
I would not believe it.” 

“ Margaret ! ” 

“ My lady, I love God with all my heart, and I cannot bear 
you should think so of him. You might as well say that a 
mother would go away from her little child, lying moaning in 
the dark, because it could not see her, and was afraid to put 
its hand out into the dark to feel for her.” 

11 Then you think he does care for us, even when we are 
very wicked. But he cannot bear wicked people.” 

“ Who dares to say that ? ” cried Margaret. “ Has he not 
been making the world go on and on, with all the wickedness 
that is in it ; yes, making new babies to be born of thieves and 
murderers and sad women and all, for hundreds of years? 
God help us, Lady Emily ! If he cannot bear wicked people, 
then this world is hell itself, and the Bible is all a lie, and the 
Saviour did never die for sinners. It is only the holy Phari- 
sees that Can’t bear wicked people.” 

u Oh ! how happy I should be, if that were true ! I should 
not be afraid now.” 

“ You are not wicked, dear Lady Emily; but if you were, 
God would bend over you, trying to get you back, like a father 
over his sick child. Will people never believe about the lost 
sheep ? ” 

“ Oh ! yes ; I believe that. But then — ” 

“ You can’t trust it quite. Trust in God, then, the very 
father of you — and never mind the words. You have been 
taught to turn tne very words of God against himself.” 

Lady Emily was weeping. 

“ Lady Emily,” Margaret went on, “ if I felt my heart as 
hard as a stone ; if I did not love God, or man, or woman, or 
little child, I would yet say to God in my heart, ‘ 0 God, see 
how I trust thee, because thou art perfect, and not changeable 
like me. I do not love thee. I love nobody. I am not even 
sorry for it. Thou seest how much I need thee to come close 
to me, to put thy arm round me, to say to me, my child ; for 
the worse my state, the greater my need of my father who loves 
me. Come to me, and my day will dawn. My beauty and 
my love will come back ; and oh ! how I shall love thee, my 


234 


i)AVTD ELGJNBROD. 


God ! and know that my love is thy love, my blessedness thy 
being.’ ” 

As Margaret spoke, she seemed to have forgotten Lady 
Emily’s presence, and to be actually praying. Those who 
cannot receive such words from the lips of a lady’s-maid must 
be reminded what her father was, and that she had lost him. 
She had had advantages at least equal to those which David 
the Shepherd had — and he wrote the Psalms. 

She ended with : — 

“ I do not even desire thee to come, yet come thou.” 

She seemed to pray entirely as Lady Emily, not as Margaret. 
When she had ceased, Lady Emily said, sobbing : — 

“ You will not leave me, Margaret? I will tell you why 
another time.” 

“ I will not leave you, my dear lady.” 

Margaret stooped and kissed her forehead. Lady Emily 
threw her arms round her neck, and offered her mouth to be 
kissed by the maid. In another minute she was fast asleep, 
with Margaret seated by her side, every now and then glancing 
up at her from her work, with a calm face, over which brooded 
the mist of tears. 

That night, as Hugh paced up and down the floor of his 
study about midnight, he was awfully startled by the sudden 
opening of the door and the apparition of Harry in his night- 
shirt, pale as death, and scarcely able to articulate the words : — 

“ The ghost ! the ghost ! ” 

He took the poor boy in his arms, held him fast, and com- 
forted him. When he was a little soothed, 

“ 0 Harry!” he said, lightly, “you’ve been dreaming. 
Where’s the ghost? ” 

“In the Ghost’s Walk,” cried Harry, almost shrieking 
anew with terror. 

“ How do you know it is there ? ” 

“ I saw it from my window. I couldn’t sleep. I got up 
and looked out, — I don’t know why, — and I saw it! I saw 
it!” 

The words were followed by a long cry of terror. 

“ Come and show it to me,” said Hugh, wanting to make 
light of it. 


©AVID ELGINBROD. 


235 


“No, no, Mr. Sutherland — please not. I couldn t go 
jack into that room.” 

“Very well, dear Harry ; you shan’t go back. You shall 
sleep with me to-night.” 

“ Oh ! thank you, thank you, dear Mr. Sutherland. You 
will love me again, won’t you ? ” 

This touched Hugh’s heart. He could hardly refrain from 
tears. His old love, buried before it was dead, revived. He 
clasped the boy to his heart, and carried him to his own bed • 
then, to comfort him, undressed and lay down beside him 
without even going to look if he, too, might not see the ghost. 
She had brought about one good thing at least that night; 
though, I fear, she had no merit in it. 

Lady Emily’s room likewise looked out upon the Ghost’s 
Walk. Margaret heard the cry as she sat by the sleeping 
Emily ; and, not knowing whence it came, went, naturally 
enough, in her perplexity, to the window. From it she could 
see distinctly, for it was clear moonlight : a white figure went 
gliding away along the deserted avenue. She immediately 
guessed what the cry had meant; but as she had heard a door 
bang directly after (as Harry shut his behind him with a 
terrified instinct, to keep the awful window in), she was not 
very uneasy about him. She felt besides that she must re- 
main where she was, according to her promise to Lady Emily. 
But she resolved to be prepared for the possible recurrence of 
the same event, and accordingly revolved it in her mind. She 
was sure that any report of it coming to Lady Emily’s ears 
would greatly impede her recovery ; for she instinctively felt 
that her illness had something to do with the questionable 
occupations in the library. She watched by her bedside all 
the night, slumbering at times, but roused in a moment by any 
restlessness of the patient ; when she found that, simply by laying 
Lei hand on hers, or kissing her forehead, she could restore hex 
at once to quiet sleep. 


286 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

THE GHOST’S WALK. 


1 Thierry . — *3is full of fearful shadows. 

Ordella. — So is slee P> sir » 

Or anything that’s merely ours, and mortal J 
We were begotten gods else. But those fears, 

Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts, 

Fly, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. — Thier-y and Theodora . 

Margaret sat watching the waking of Lady Emily. 
Knowing how much the first thought colors the feeling of the 
whole day, she wished that Lady Emily should at once be 
aware that she was by her side. 

She opened her eyes, and a smile broke over her face when 
ghe perceived her nurse. Rut Margaret did not yet speak to 
her. 

Every nurse should remember that waking ought always to 
be a gradual operation ; and, except in the most triumphant 
health, is never complete on the opening of the eyes. 

“Margaret, I am better,” said Lady Emily, at last. 

“ I am very glad, my lady.” 

“ I have been lying awake for some time, and I am sure I 
am better. 1 don’t see strange-colored figures floating about 
the room as I did yesterday. Were you not out of the room 
a few minutes ago? ” 

“Just for one moment, my lady.” 

“I knew it. Rut I did not mind it. Yesterday, when you 
left me, those figures grew ten times as many, the moment 
you were gone. Rut you will stay with me to-day, too, Mar- 
garet? ” she added, with some anxiety. 

“ I will, if you find you need me. Rut I may be forced to 
leave you a little while this evening, — you must try to allow 
me this, dear Lady Emily.” 

“ Of course I will. I will be quite patient, I promise you, 
whatever comes to me.” 

When Harry woke, after a very troubled sleep, from which 
he had often started with sudden cries of terror, Hugh made 
him promise not to increase the confusion of the household, by 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


237 


speaking of what he had seen. Harry promised at once, hut 
begged in his turn that Hugh would not leave him all day 
It did not need the pale, scared face of his pupil to enforce the 
request ; for Hugh was already anxious lest the fright the hoy 
had had should exercise a permanently deleterious effect on 
his constitution. Therefore he hardly let him out of hia 
sight. 

But although Harry kept his word, the cloud of perturba- 
tion gathered thicker in the kitchen and the servants’ hall. 
Nothing came to the ears of their master and mistress ; but 
gloomy looks, sudden starts, and sidelong glances of fear, in- 
dicated the prevailing character of the feelings of the house- 
hold. 

And although Lady Emily was not so ill, she had not yet 
taken a decided turn for the better, but appeared to suffer from 
some kind of low fever. The medical man who was called in 
confessed to Mrs. Elton, that as yet he could say nothing very 
decided about her condition, but recommended great quiet and 
careful nursing. Margaret scarcely left her room, and the in- 
valid showed far more than the ordinary degree of dependence 
upon her nurse. In her relation to her she was more like a 
child than an invalid. 

About noon she was better. She called Margaret and said 
to her: — 

u Margaret, dear, I should like to tell you one thing that 
annoys me very much.” 

“ What is it, dear Lady Emily? ” 

“ That man haunts me. I cannot bear the thought of him ; 
and yet I cannot get rid of him. I am sure he is a bad man. 
Are you certain he is not here? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, my lady. He has not been here since the 
day before yesterday.” 

“ And yet, when you leave me for an instant, I always feel 
as if he were sitting in the very seat where you were the mo- 
ment before, or just coming to the door and about to open it. 
That is why I cannot bear you to leave me.” 

Margaret might have confessed to some slighter sensations of 
the same kind ; but they did not oppress her as they did Lady 
Emily. 

“ God is nearer to you than any thought or feeling of yours, 


238 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Lady Emily. Do not be afraid. If all the evil things in the 
universe were around us, they could not come inside the ring 
that he makes about us. He always keeps a place for himself 
and his child, into which no other being can enter.” 

“Oh! how you must love God, Margaret ! ” 

“ Indeed, I do love him, my lady. If ever anything looks 
beautiful or lovely to me, then I know at once that God is 
that.” 

“ But, then, what right have we to take the good of that, 
however true it is, when we are not beautiful ourselves ? ” 

“That only makes God the more beautiful, — in that he 
will pour out the more of his beauty upon us to make us beau- 
tiful. If we care for his glory, we shall be glad to believe all 
this about him. But we are too anxious about feeling good 
ourselves, to rejoice in his perfect goodness. I think we 
should find that enough, my lady. For, if he be good, are not 
we his children, and sure of having it, not merely feeling it, 
some day ? ” 

Here Margaret repeated a little poem of George Herbert’s. 
She had found his poems amongst Mrs. Elton’s books, who, 
coming upon her absorbed in it one day, had made her a pres- 
ent of the volume. Then, indeed, Margaret had found a 
friend. 

The poem is called “ Dialogue ” : — 

“ Swoetest Saviour, if my soul 
Were but worth the having — ” 

“ Oh, what a comfort you are to me, Margaret ! ” Lady 
Emily said, after a short silence. “ Where did you learn such 
things? ” 

“From my father, and from Jesus Christ, and from God 
himself, showing them to me in my heart.” 

“ Ah ! that is why, as often as you come into my room, 
even if I am very troubled, I feel as if the sun shone, and the 
wind blew, and the birds sang, and the tree-tops went waving 
in the wind, as they used to do before I was taken ill, — I mean 
before they thought I must go abroad. You seem to make 
everything clear, and right, and plain. I wish I were you, 
Margaret.” 

“ If I were you, my lady, I would rather be what God 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


239 


chose to mate me, than the most glorious creature that I could 
think of. For to have been thought about, — born in God’s 
thoughts, — and then made bj God, is the dearest, grandest, 
most precious thing in all thinking. Is it not, my lady? ” 

1 ‘It is,” said Lady Emily, and was silent. 

The shadows of evening came on. As soon as it was dark, 
Margaret took her place at one of the windows hidden from 
Lady Emily by a bed-curtain. She raised the blind, and 
pulled aside one curtain, to let her have a view of the trees 
outside. She had placed the one candle so as not to shine 
either on the window or on her own eyes. Lady Emily was 
asleep. One hour and another passed, and still she sat there 
— motionless, watching. 

Margaret did not know that at another window — the one, 
indeed, next to her own — stood a second watcher. It was 
Hugh, in Harry’s room ; Harry was asleep in Hugh’s. He 
had no light. He stood with his face close against the win- 
dow-pane, on which the moon shone brightly. All below him 
the woods were half dissolved away in the moonlight. The 
Ghost’s Walk lay full before him, like a tunnel through the 
trees. He could see a great way down, by the light that fell 
into it, at various intervals, from between the boughs over- 
head. He stood thus for a long time, gazing somewhat list- 
lessly. Suddenly he became all eyes, as he caught the white 
glimmer of something passing up the avenue. He stole out 
of the room, down to the library by the back-stair, and so 
through the library window into the wood. He reached the 
avenue sideways, at some distance from the house, and peepea 
from behind a tree, up and down. At first he saw nothing. 
But a moment after, while he was looking down the avenue, 
that is, away from the house, a veiled figure in white passed 
him noiselessly from the other direction. From the way in 
which he was looking at the moment, it had passed him before 
he saw it. It made no sound. Only some early-falling leaves 
rustled as they hurried away in uncertain eddies, startled by 
the sweep of its trailing garments, which yet were held up by 
hands hidden within them. On it went. Hugh’s eyes were 
fixed on its course. He could not move, and his heart labored 
so frightfully that he could hardly breathe. The figure had 
not advanced far, however, before he heard a repressed cry of 


240 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


agony, and it sank to the earth and vanished; while from 
where it disappeared, down the path, came, silently too, turn- 
ing neither to the right nor the left, a second figure, veiled in 
black from head to foot. 

“It is the nun in Lady Euphrasia’ s room,” said Hugh tc 
himself. 

This passed him too, and, walking slowly towards the house, 
disappeared somewhere near the end of the avenue. Turning 
^>nce more, with reviving courage, — for his blood had begun to 
flow more equably, — Hugh ventured to approach the spot 
where the white figure had vanished. He found nothing there 
but the shadow of a large tree. He walked through the ave- 
nue to the end, and then back to the house, but saw nothing, 
though he often started at fancied appearances. Sorely bewil- 
dered, he returned to his own room. After speculating till 
thought was weary, he lay down beside Harry, whom he was 
thankful to find in a still repose, and fell fast asleep. 

Margaret lay on a couch in Lady Emily’s room, and slept 
likewise ; but she started wide awake at every moan of the in- 
valid, who often moaned in her sleep. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE BAD MAN. 


She kent he was nao gentle knight, 

That she had letten in ; 

For neither when he gaed nor cam’ 

Kissed he her cheek or chin. 

He neither kissed her when he cam*, 

Nor clappit her when he gaed; 

And in and out at her bower window 
The moon shone like the gleed. 

G-lenkindie. — Old Scotch Ballad . 


When Euphra recovered from the swoon into which she had 
fallen, — for I need hardly explain to my readers, that it was 
the who walked the Ghost’s Walk in white, — on seeing Mar- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


241 


garet, whom, under the irresistible influences of the moonlight 
and a bad conscience, she took for the very being whom Eu- 
phra herself was personating, — when she recovered, I say, 
she found herself lying in the wood, with Funkelstein, whom 
she had gone to meet, standing beside her. Her first words 
were of anger, as she tried to rise, and found she could not. 

'’How long, Count Halkar, am I to be your slave? ” 

Till you have learned to submit.” 

“ Have I not done all I can ? ” 

“ You have not found it. You are free from the moment 
you place that ring, belonging to me in right of my family, 
into my hands.” 

I do not believe the man really was Count Halkar, although 
he had evidently persuaded Euphra that such was his name 
and title. I think it much more probable that, in the course 
of picking up a mass of trifling information about various 
families of distinction, for which his position of secretary in 
several of their houses had afforded him special facilities, he 
had learned something about the Halkar family, and this par- 
ticular ring, of which, for some reason or other, he wanted to 
possess himself. 

“ What more can I do?” moaned Euphra, succeeding at 
length in raising herself to a sitting posture, and leaning thus 
against a tree. “ I shall be found out some day. I have 
been already seen wandering through the house at midnight, 
with the heart of a thief. I hate you, Count Halkar ! ” 

A low laugh was the count’s only reply. 

“ And now Lady Euphrasia herself dogs my steps, to keep 
me from the ring.” She gave a low cry of agony at the re- 
membrance. 

“ Miss Cameron — Euphra — are you going to give way to 
such folly?” 

“ Folly ! Is it not worse folly to torture a poor girl as you 
do me, — all for a worthless ring ? What can you want with 
the ring? I do not know that he has it even.” 

“ You lie. You know he has. You need not think to take 
me in.” 

u You base man ! You dare not give the lie to any but a 
woman.” 

“ Why ? ” 


16 


242 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ Because you are a coward. You are afraid of Lady Eu- 
phrasia yourself. See there ! ” 

Yon Funkelstein glanced round him uneasily. It was only 
the moonlight on the bark of a silver birch. Conscious of 
having betrayed weakness, he grew spiteful. 

“ If you do not behave to me better, I will compel you. 
Bise up ! ” 

After a moment’s hesitation, she rose. 

11 Put your arms round me.” 

She seemed to grow to the earth, and to drag herself from 
it one foot after another. But she came close up to the 
Bohemian, and put one arm half round him, looking to the 
earth all the time. 

“ Kiss me.” 

“ Count Halkar ! ” — her voice sounded hollow and harsh, 
us if from a dead throat, — “ I will do what you please. Only 
release me.” 

“ Go then ; but mind you resist me no more. I do not care 
for your kisses. You were ready enough once. But that idiot 
of a tutor has taken my place, I see.” 

‘‘Would to God I had never seen you ! — never yielded to 
your influence over me ! Swear that I shall be free if I find 
you the ring.” 

“You find the ring first. Why should I swear? I can 
compel you. You know you laid yourself out to entrap me 
first with your arts, and I only turned upon you with mine. 
And you are in my power. But you shall be free, notwith- 
standing ; and I will torture you till you free yourself. Find 
the ring.” 

“ Cruel ! cruel ! You are doing all you can to ruin me.” 

“ On the contrary, I am doing all I can to save myself. If 
you had loved me as you allowed me to think once, I should 
never have made you my tool.” 

“You would, all the same.” 

“ Take care. I am irritable to-night.” 

For a few moments Euphra made no reply. 

“ To what will you drive me? ” she said at last. 

“I will not go too far. I should lose my power ovef you 
if I did. I prefer to keep it.” 

“ Inexorable man ! ” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


243 


“Yes.” 

Another despairing pause. 

“ What am I to do ? ” 

“ Nothing. But keep yourself ready to carry out any plan 
that I may propose. Something will turn up, now that I have 
got into the house myself. Leave me to find out the means. 
I can expect no invention from your brains. You can go 
home.” 

Euphra turned without another word, and went ; murmuring, 
as if in excuse to herself: — 

“ It is for my freedom. It is for my freedom.” 

Of course this account must have come originally from 
Euphra herself, for there was no one else to tell it. She, at 
least, believed herself compelled to do what the man pleased. 
Some of my readers will put her down as insane. She may 
have been ; but, for my part, I believe there is such a power 
of one being over another, though perhaps only in a rare con- 
tact of psychologically peculiar natures. I have testimony 
enough for that. She had yielded to his will once. Had she 
not done so, he could not have compelled her ; but, having once 
yielded, she had not strength sufficient to free herself again. 
Whether even he could free her, further than by merely 
abstaining from the exercise of the power he had gained, I 
doubt much. 

It is evident that he had come to the neighborhood of Arn- 
stead for the sake of finding her, and exercising his power over 
her for his own ends ; that he had made her come to him once, 
if not oftener, before he met Hugh, and by means of his 
acquaintance obtained admission into Arnstead. Once admitted, 
he had easily succeeded, by his efforts to please, in so far in- 
gratiating himself with Mr. Arnold, that now the house-door 
stood open to him, and he had even his recognized seat at the 
dinner* table. 


244 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

SPIRIT versus MATERIALISM. 

Next this marble-vonomed seat, 

Smeared with gums of glutinous heat, 

I touch with chaste palms moist and cold — 

Now the spell hath lost his hold. 

Milton. — Com **. 

Next morning Lady Emily felt better, and wanted to get 
up ; but her eyes were still too bright, and her hands too hot ; 
and Margaret would not hear of it. 

Fond as Lady Emily was in general of Mrs. Elton’s society, 
she did not care to have her with her now, and got tired of her 
when Margaret was absent. 

They had taken care not to allow Miss Cameron to enter the 
room ; but to-day there was not much likelihood of her making 
the attempt, for she did not appear at breakfast, sending a 
message to her uncle that she had a bad headache, but hoped 
to take her place at the dinner-table. 

During the day, Lady Emily was better, but restless by fits. 

“ Were you not out of the room for a little while last night, 
Margaret? ” she said, rather suddenly. 

“ Yes, my lady. I told you I should have to go, perhaps.” 

“ I remember I thought you had gone, but I was not in the 
least afraid, and that dreadful man never came near me. I 
do not know when you returned. Perhaps I had fallen asleep ; 
but when I thought about you next, there you were by my 
bedside.” 

“ I shall not have to leave you to-night,” was all Margaret’s 
answer. 

As for Hugh, when first he woke, the extraordinary 
experiences of the previous night appeared to him to belong 
only to the night, and to have no real relation to the daylight 
world. But a little reflection soon convinced him of the 
contrary ; and then he went through the duties of the day like 
one who had nothing to do with them. The phantoms he had 
seen even occupied some of the thinking space formerly appro- 
priated by the image of Euphra, though he knew to his' concern 


DAVID ELGINBRQD. 


245 


that she was ill, and confined to her room. He had heard the 
message sent to Mr. Arnold, however, and so kept hoping for 
the dinner-hour. 

With it came Euphra, very pale. Her eyes had an unsettled 
look, and there were dark hollows under them. She would 
start and look sideways without any visible cause; and was 
thus very different from her usual self, — ordinarily remark- 
able for self-possession, almost to coolness, of manner and 
speech. Hugh saw it, and became both distressed and 
speculative in consequence. It did not diminish his discomfort 
that, about the middle of dinner, Funkelstein was announced. 
Was it, then, that Euphra had been tremulously expectant of 
him ? 

“ This is an unforeseen pleasure, Herr Yon Funkelstein/ 
said Mr. Arnold. 

“ It is very good of you to call it a pleasure, Mr. Arnold,” 
said he. “Miss Cameron — but, good heavens! how ill you 
look ! ” 

“ Don’t be alarmed. I have only caught the plague.” 

11 Only?” was all Funkelstein said in reply; yet Hugh 
thought he had no right to be so solicitous about Euphra’s 
health. 

As the gentlemen sat at their wine, Mr. Arnold said : — 

“lam anxious to have one more trial of those strange thing* 
you have brought to our knowledge. I have been thinking 
about them ever since.” 

“Of course I am at your service, Mr. Arnold; but don’t 
you think, for the ladies’ sakes, we have had enough of it? ” 

“You are very considerate, Herr Yon Funkelstein; but 
they need not be present if they do not like it.” 

“ Yery well, Mr. Arnold.” 

They adjourned once more to the library instead of the 
drawing-room. Hugh went and told Euphra, who was alone 
in the drawing-room, what they were about. She declined 
going, but insisted on his leaving her, and joining the other 
gentlemen. 

Hugh left her with much reluctance. 

“ Margaret,” said Lady Emily, “lam certain that man is 
in the house.” 

“ He is, my lady,” answered Margaret. 


246 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ They are about some more of those horrid experiments, as 
they call them.’ , 

“ I do not know.” , , , r . 

Mrs. Elton entering the room at that moment, Margaret 

Ba *“ Do you know, ma’am, whether the gentlemen are — in the 

library again? ” , , , 

“I don’t know, Margaret. I hope not. We have had 

enough of that. I will go and find out, though.” 

it win you take my place for a few minutes first, please, 

ma’am?” . . 

Margaret had felt a growing oppression for some time, fone 

had scarcely left the sick-room that day. 

tt Don’t leave me, dear Margaret,” said Lady Emily, 

“ Only for a little while, my lady. I shall be back in less 

than a quarter of an hour.” 

“ Very well, Margaret,” she answered, doletully. 

Margaret went out into the moonlight, and walked for ten 
minutes. She sought the more open parts, where the winds 
were. She then returned to the sick-chamber, refreshed and 

strong-Qw ^ ^ an d gee w hat the gentlemen are about,” 

said Mrs. Elton. , , 

The good lady did not like these proceedings, but she was 
irresistibly attracted by them notwithstanding. Having gone 
to see for Lady Emily, she remained to see for herself. 

After she had left, Lady Emily grew more uneasy. Not 
even Margaret’s presence could make her comfortable. Mrs. 
Elton did not return. Many minutes elapsed. Lady Emily 

said at last : — _ . . i a. i t 

tt Margaret, I am terrified at the idea of being left alone, 1 

confess ; but not so terrified as at the idea of what is going on 
in that library. Mrs. Elton will not come back. Would you 
mind just running down to ask her to come tome?” 

“I W ould go with pleasure,” said Margaret; “but I don’t 

want to be seen.” _ j t? -i 

Margaret did not want to be seen by Hugh. Lady Emily, 
with her dislike to Funkelstein, thought Margaret did not 
want to be seen by him. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


247 


“ Tou will find a black veil of mine,” she said, “ in that 
wardrobe ; just throw it over your head, and hold a hand- 
kerchief to your face. They will be so busy that they will 
never see you.” 

Margaret yielded to the request of Lady Emily, who herself 
arranged her head-dress for her. 

Now I must go back a little. When Mrs. Elton reached 
the room, she found it darkened, and the gentlemen seated at 
the table. A running fire of knocks was going on all around. 

She sat down in a corner. In a minute or two, she fancied 
she saw strange figures moving about, generally near the floor, 
and very imperfectly developed. Sometimes only a hand, 
sometimes only a foot, shadowed itself out of the dim obscurity. 
She tried to persuade herself that it was all done, somehow or 
other, by Funkelstein, yet she could not help watching with a 
curious dread. She was not a very excitable woman, and her 
nerves were safe enough. 

In a minute or two more, the table at which they were 
seated began to move up and down with a kind of vertical 
oscillation, and several things in the room began to slide about, 
by short, apparently purposeless jerks. Everything threatened 
to assume motion, and turn the library into a domestic chaos. 
Mrs. Elton declared afterwards that several books were thrown 
about the room. But suddenly everything was as still as the 
moonlight. Every chair and table was at rest, looking per- 
fectly incapable of motion. Mrs. Elton felt that she dared not 
say they had moved at all, so utterly ordinary was their 
appearance. Not a sound was to be heard from corner or ceil- 
ing. After a moment’s silence, Mrs. Elton was quite restored 
to her sound mind, as she said, and left the room. 

“ Some adverse influence is at work,” said Funkelstein, with 
Borne vexation. “ What is in that closet ? ” 

So saying, he approached the door of the private staircase, 
and opened it. They saw him start aside, and a veiled, dark 
figure pass him, cross the library, and go out by another door. 

°“I have my suspicions,” said Funkelstein, with a rather 
tremulous voice. 

“ And your fears too, I think. Grant it qqw,” said Mr. 
Arnold. 

“ Granted, Mr. Arnold. Let us go to the drawing-room.’* 


248 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Just as Margaret had reached the library-door at the bottom 
of the private stair, either a puff of wind from an open loop- 
hole window, or some other cause, destroyed the arrangement 
of the veil, and made it fall quite over her face. She stopped 
for a moment to readjust it. She had not quite succeeded, 
when Funkelstein opened the door. Without an instant’s 
hesitation, she let the veil fall, and walked forward. 

Mrs. Elton had gone to her own room, on her way to Lady 
Emily’s. When she reached the latter, she found Margaret 
seated as she had left her, by the bedside. Lady Emily said : — 

“ 1 did not miss you, Margaret, half so much as I expected. 
But indeed you were not many moments gone. I do not care 
for that man now. He can’t hurt me, can he? ” 

“ Certainly not. I hope he will give you no more trouble 
either, dear Lady Emily. But if I might presume to advise 
you, I would say, Get well as soon as you can, and leave 
this place.” 

“ Why should I? You frighten me. Mr. Arnold is very 
kind to me.” 

“ The place quite suits Lady Emily, I am sure, Margaret.” 

“ But Lady Emily is not so well as when she came.” 

“No; hut that is not the fault of the place,” said Lady 
Emily. “Iam sure it is all that horrid man’s doing.” 

“How else will you get rid of him, then? What if he 
wants to get rid of you ? ” 

“ What harm can I be doing him, — a poor girl like me?” 

“I don’t know. But I fear there is something not right 
going on.” 

“We will tell Mr. Arnold at once,” said Mrs. Elton. 

“But what could you tell him, ma’am? Mr. Arnold is 
hardly one to listen to your maid’s suspicions. Dear Lady 
Emily, you must get well and go.” 

“I will try,” said Lady Emily, submissive as a child. 

“ I think you will be able to get up for a little while to- 
morrow.” 

A tap came to the door. It was Euphrasia, inquiring aftei 
Lady Emily. 

“Ask bliss Cameron to come in,” said the invalid. 

She entered. Her maimer was much changed — was sub* 
3ued and suffering. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


249 


“ Dear Miss Cameron, you and I ought to change places. 
I am sorry to see you looking so ill,” said Lady Emily. 

u I have had a headache all day. I shall be quite well to- 
morrow, thank you.” 

“ I intend to be so too,” said Lady Emily, cheerfully. 

After some little talk, Euphra went, holding her hand to her 
forehead. Margaret did not look up, all the time she was in 
the room, but went on busily with her needle. 

That night was a peaceful one. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE RING. 


. . shining crystal, which . * 

Out of her womb a thousand rayons threw. 

Bel, lay. — Translated by Spensa . 


The next day, Lady Emily was very nearly as well as she 
had proposed being. She did not, however, make her appear- 
ance below. Mr. Arnold, hearing at luncheon that she was 
out of bed, immediately sent up his compliments, with the re- 
quest that he might be permitted to see her on his return from 
the neighboring village, where he had some business. To this 
Lady Emily gladly consented. 

He sat with her a long time, talking about various things ; 
for the presence of the girl, reminding him of his young wife, 
brought out the best of the man, lying yet alive under the in- 
crustation of self-importance, and its inevitable stupidity. At 
length, subject of further conversation failing, / 

“I wonder what we can do to amuse you, Lady Emily,” 
said he 

“ Thank you, Mr. Arnold ; I am not at all dull. With my 
kind friend, Mrs. Elton, and — ” .... 

She would have said Margaret, but became instinctively 
aware that the mention of her would make Mr. Arnold open 
his eyes, for he did not even know her name ; and that he 


250 


DAVID ELGINBROD 


would stare jet wider when he learned that the valued com 
panion referred to was Mrs. Elton’s maid. 

Mr. Arnold left the room, and presently returned with his 
arms filled with all the drawing-room books he could find, with 
grand bindings outside, and equally grand plates inside. These 
he heaped on the table beside Lady Emily, who tried to look 
interested, but scarcely succeeded to Mr. Arnold’s satisfaction, 
for he presently said : — 

“You don’t seem to care much about these, dear Lady 
Emily. I dare say you have looked at them already, in this 
dull house of ours.” 

This was a wonderful admission from Mr. Arnold. He pon- 
dered, then exclaimed, as if he had just made a grand dis- 
covery : — 

“ I have it ! I know something that will interest you.” 

“ Do not trouble yourself, pray, Mr. Arnold,” said Lady 
Emily. But he was already half-way to the door. 

He went to his own room, and his own strong closet therein. 

Returning toward the invalid’s quarters with an ebony box 
of considerable size, he found it rather heavy, and, meeting 
Euphra by the way, requested her to take one of the silver 
handles, and help him to carry it to Lady Emily’s room. 
She started when she saw it, but merely said : — 

“With pleasure, uncle.” 

“ Now, Lady Emily,” said he, as, setting down the box, he 
took out a curious antique, enamelled key, “ we shall be ablo 
to amuse you for a little while.” 

He opened the box, and displayed such a glitter and show as 
would have delighted the eyes of any lady. All kinds of 
strange ornaments : ancient watches, — one of them a death’s 
head in gold ; cameo necklaces ; pearls abundant ; diamonds, 
rubies, and all the colors of precious stones, — every one of 
them having some history, whether known to the owner or not ; 
gems that had flashed on many a fair finger and many a shin- 
ing neck, lay before Lady Emily’s delighted eyes. But 
Euphrasia’s eyes shone, as she gazed on them, with a very 
different expression from that which sparkled in Lady Emily’s. 
They seemed to search them with fingers of lightning. 
Mr. Arnold chose two or three, and gave Lady Emily her 
choice of them. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


251 


“ I could not think of depriving you.” 

“ They are of no use to me,” said Mr. Arnold, making 
light of the handsome offer. 

“ You arc too kind. I should like this ring.” 

“ Take it then, dear Lady Emily.” 

Euphrasia’ s eyes were not on the speaker’s, nor was any envy 
to be seen in her face. She still gazed at the jewels in the 

b° x . . 

The chosen gem was put aside ; and then, one after another, 
the various articles were taken out and examined. At length, 
a large gold chain, set with emeralds, was lifted from where it 
lay coiled up in a corner. A low cry, like a muffled moan, es- 
caped from Euphrasia’s lips, and she turned her head away 
from the box. 

“ What is the matter, Euphra? ” said Mr. Arnold. 

“A sudden shoot of pain, — I beg your pardon, dear uncle. 

I fear I am not quite so well yet as I thought I was. How 

stupid of me ! ” x , 

“ Do sit down. I fear the weight of the box was too much 

for you.” . ,, 

44 Not in the least. I want to see the pretty things. 

“ But you have seen them before.” 

44 No, uncle. You promised to show them to me, but you 

never did.” _ _ , ^ .. 

44 You see what I get by being ill,” said Lady Emily. 

The chain was examined, admired, and laid aside. 

Where it had lain, they now observed, in the corner, a huge 

stone like a diamond. .. . 

44 What is this?” said Lady Emily, taking it up. Uh . 
I see. It is a ring. But such a ring for size I never saw. 

Do look, Miss Cameron.” . , 

For Miss Cameron was not looking. She was leaning her 
head on her hand, and her face was ashy pale. Lady Emily 
tried the ring on. Any two of her fingers would go into the 
broad gold circlet, beyond which the stone projected tar m 
every direction. Indeed, the ring was attached to the stone, 
rather than the stone set in the ring. 

44 That is a curious thing, is it not?, said Mr. Arnold. 
«« It is of no value in itself, I believe ; it is nothing but a 
crystal. But it seems to have been always thought something 


252 


DAVIl ELGINBROD. 


of in the family, — I presume from its being evidently the 
very ring painted by Sir Peter Lely in that portrait of Lady 
Euphrasia which I showed you the other day. It is a clumsy 
affair, — is it not?” 

It might have occurred to Mr. Arnold, that such a thing 
must have been thought something of. before its owner would 
have chosen to wear it when sitting for her portrait. 

Lady Emily was just going to lay it down, when she spied 
something that made her look at it more closely. 

“What curious engraving is this upon the gold?” she 
asked. 

“ I do not know, indeed,” answered Mr. Arnold. “I have 
never observed it.” 

“ Look at it, then — all over the gold. What at first looks 
only like chasing is, I do believe, words. The character 
looks to me like German. I wish I could read it. I am but 
a poor German scholar. Do look at it, please, dear Miss 
Cameron.” 

Euphra glanced slightly at it without touching it, and 
said : — 

“ I am sure I could make nothing of it. But,” she added, 
as if struck by a sudden thought, “ as Lady Emily seems in- 
terested in it, suppose we send for Mr. Sutherland. I have 
no doubt he will be able to decipher it.” 

She rose as if she would go for him herself ; but, apparently 
on second thoughts, went to the bell and rang it. 

“ Oh ! do not trouble yourself,” interposed Lady Emily, in a 
tone that showed she would like it notwithstanding. 

“No trouble at all,” answered Euphra and her uncle in a 
breath. 

“Jacob,” said Mr. Arnold, “take my compliments to Mr. 
Sutherland, and ask him to step this way.” 

The man went, and Hugh came. 

“ There’s a puzzle for you, Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Ar- 
nold, as he entered. “ Decipher that inscription, and gain the 
favor of Lady Emily forever.” 

As he spoke he put the ring in Hugh’s hand. Hugh recog- 
nized it at once. 

“ Ah ! this is Lady Euphrasia’s wonderful ring,” said he 

Euphra cast on him one of her sudden glances. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


253 


“ What do you know about it? ” said Mr. Arnold, hastily. 

Euphra flashed at him once more, covertly. 

“ I only know that this is the ring in her portrait. Any 
one may see that it is a very wonderful ring indeed, by only 
looking at it,” answered Hugh, smiling. 

“ I hope it is not too wonderful for you to get at the mys- 
tery of it though, Mr. Sutherland? ” said Lady Emily. 

‘•Lady Emily is dying to understand the inscription,” said 
Euphrasia. 

By this time Hugh was turning it round and round, trying 
to get a beginning to the legend. But in this he met with a 
difficulty. The fact was, that the initial letter of the inscrip- 
tion could only be found by looking into the crystal, held 
close to the eye. The words seemed not altogether unknown 
to him, though the characters were a little strange, and the 
words themselves were undivided. The dinner-bell rang. 

“ Bear me ! how the time goes in your room, Lady 
Emily ! ” said Mr. Arnold, who was never known to keep din- 
ner waiting a moment. “Will you venture to go down with 
us to-day?” 

“I fear I must not to-day. To-morrow, I hope. But do 
put up these beauties before you go. I dare not touch them 
without you, and it is so much more pleasure seeing them, 
when I have you to tell me about them.” 

“Well, throw them in,” said Mr. Arnold, pretending an in- 
difference he did not feel. “ The reality of dinner must not 
be postponed to the fancy of jewels.” 

All this time Hugh had stood poring over the ring at the 
window, whither he had taken it for better light, as the shad- 
ows were falling. Euphra busied herself replacing everything 
in the box. When all were in, she hastily shut the lid. 

“ Well, Mr. Sutherland? ” said Mr. Arnold. 

“ I seem on the point of making it out, Mr. Arnold, but I 
certainly have not succeeded yet.” 

“ Confess yourself vanquished, then, and come to dinner.” 

“Iam very unwilling to give in, for I feel convinced that if 
I had leisure to copy the inscription as far as I can read it, I 
should, with the help of my dictionary, soon supply the rest. 
I am very unwilling, as well, to lose a chance of the favor of 
Lady Emily.” 


254 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ Yes, do read it, if you can. I, too, am dying to hear it,” 
said Euphra. 

u Will you trust me with it, Mr. Arnold ? I will take the 
greatest care of it.” # . 

u Oh, certainly ! ” replied Mr. Arnold, with a little hesi- 
tation in his tone, however, of which Hugh was too eager to 
take any notice. _ . , . 

He carried it to his room immediately, and laid it beside his 
manuscript verses, in the hiding-place of the old escritoire. 
He was in the drawing-room a moment after. 

There he found Euphra and the Bohemian alone. — Yon 
Funkelstein had, in an incredibly short space of time, estab- 
lished himself as Hausfreund , and came and went as he 
pleased. — They looked as if they had been interrupted in a 
hurried and earnest conversation — their faces were so impas- 
sive. Yet Euphra’ s wore a considerably heightened color, — 
a more articulate indication. She could school her features, 
but not her complexion. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


THE WAGER. 

He . . . stakes this ring: 

And would so, had it been a carbuncle 
Of Phoebus’ wheel ; and might so safely, had it 
Been all the worth of his car. 

Cymbeline • 


Hugh, of course, had an immediate attack of jealousy. 
Wishing to show it in one quarter, and hide it in every other, 
he carefully abstained from looking once in the direction of 
Euphra; while, throughout the dinner, he spoke to every one 
else as often as there was the smallest pretext for doing so. 
To enable himself to keep this up, he drank wine freely. As 
he was in general very moderate, by the time the ladies rose 
it had begun to affect his brain. It was not half so potent, 
however, in its influences, as the parting glance which Eu- 


PAVID ELGINBROD. 


255 


phra succeeded at last, as she left the room, in sending through 
his eyes to his heart. 

Hugh sat down to the table again, with a quieter tongue, 
but a busier brain. He drank still, without thinking of the 
consequences. A strong will kept him from showing any 
signs of intoxication ; but he was certainly nearer to that state 
than he had ever been in his life before. 

The Bohemian started the new subject which generally fol- 
lowed the ladies’ departure. 

44 How long is it since Arnstead was first said to be haunted, 
Mr. Arnold?” 

44 Haunted ! Herr von Funkelstein ? I am at a loss to un- 
derstand you,” replied Mr. Arnold, who resented any such al- 
lusion, being subversive of the honor of his house, almost aa 
much as if it had been depreciative of his own. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Arnold. I thought it was an 
open subject of remark.” 

44 So it is,” said Hugh ; 44 every one knows that.” 

Mr. Arnold was struck dumb with indignation. Before he 
had recovered himself sufficiently to know what to say, the 
conversation between the other two had assumed a form to 
which his late experiences inclined him to listen with some de- 
gree of interest. But, his pride sternly forbidding him to join 
in it, he sat sipping his wine in careless sublimity. 

44 You have seen it yourself, then? ” said the Bohemian. 

“ I did not say that,” answered Hugh. 44 But I heard one 
of the maids say once — when — ” 

He paused. 

This hesitation of his witnessed against him afterwards, in 
Mr. Arnold’s judgment. But he took no notice now. Hugh 
ended tamely enough : — 

44 Why, it is commonly reported amongst the servants.” 

“ With a blue light? — such as we saw that night from the 
library window, I suppose.” 

44 1 did not say that,” answered Hugh. 44 Besides, it was 
nothing of the sort you saw from the library. It was only the 
moon. But — ” 

He paused again. Yon Funkelstein saw the condition he 
was in, and pressed him. 

44 You know something more, Mr. Sutherland.” 


250 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Hugh hesitated again, but only for a moment. 

“Well, then,” he said, “I have seen the spectre myself, 
walking in her white grave-clothes, in the Ghost’s Avenue — 
ha! ha!” 

Funkelstein looked anxious. 

“ Were you not frightened? ” said he. 

“Frightened!” repeated Hugh, in a tone of the greatest 
contempt. “ I am of Don Juan’s opinion with regard to such 
gentry.” 

“What is that? ” 


tl 1 That soul and body, on the whole, 

Are odds against a disembodied soul.’ ” 

“ Bravo ! ” cried the count. “ You despise all these tales 
about Lady Euphrasia, wandering • about the house with a 
death-candle in her hand, looking everywhere about as if she 
had lost something, and couldn’t find it? ” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! I wish I could meet her ! ” 

“ Then you don’t believe a word of it? ” 

“ I don’t say that. There would be less of courage ihan 
boasting in talking so, if I did not believe a word of it. 

“ Then you do believe it? ” 

But Hugh was too much of a Scotchman to give a hasty 
opinion, or rather a direct answer, — even when half tipsy ; 
especially when such was evidently desired. He only shook 
and nodded his head at the same moment. 

“ Do you really mean you would meet her if you could? ” 
“Ido.” 

“Then, if all tales are true, you may, without much diffi- 
culty. For the coachman told me only to-day, that you may 
see her light in the window of that room almost any night, 
towards midnight. He told me, too (for I made quite a fuend 
of him to-day, on purpose to hear his tales), that one o* the 
maids, who left the other day, told the groom — and he told 
the coachman — that she had once heard talking ; and, peeping 
through the keyhole of a door that led into that part of the 
old house, saw a figure, dressed exactly like the picture of 
Lady Euhprasia, wandering up and down, wringing her hands 
and beating her breast, as if she were in terrible trouble. Sho 


DAVIju elginbrod. 


257 


had a light in her hand which burned awfully blue, *nd her 
face was the face of a corpse, with pale-green spots.” 

•‘You think to frighten me, Funkelstein, and make me 
tremble at what I said a minute ago. Instead of repeating 
that, I say now, I will sleep in Lady Euphrasia’s room this 
night, if you like.” 

“ I lay you a hundred guineas you won’t ! ” cried the Bohe- 
mian. 

“ Done ! ” said Hugh, offering him his hand. Funkelstein 
took it ; and so the bet was committed to the decision of courage. 

“Well, gentlemen,” interposed Mr. Arnold, at last, “you 
might have left a corner for me somewhere. Without my 
permission you will hardly settle your wager.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Arnold,” said Funkelstein. “We 
got rather excited over it, and forgot our manners. But I am 
quite willing to give it up, if Mr. Sutherland will.” 

“ Not I,” said Hugh, — “ that is, of course, if Mr. Arnold 
has no objection.” 

“ Of course not. My house, ghost and all, is at your ser- 
vice, gentlemen,” responded Mr. Arnold, rising. 

They went to the drawing-room. Mr. Arnold, strange to 
say, was in a good humor. He walked up to Mrs. Elton, and 
said : — 

“ These wicked men have been betting, Mrs. Elton.” 

“Iam surprised they should be so silly,” said she, with a 
smile, taking it as a joke. 

“What have they been betting about?” said Euphra, 
coming up to her uncle. 

“ Herr Yon Funkelstein has laid a hundred guineas that Mr. 
Sutherland will not sleep in Lady Euphrasia’s room to-night.” 

Euphra turned pale. 

“ By sleep, I suppose you mean spend the night?” said 
Hugh to Funkelstein. “ I cannot be certain of sleeping, you 
know.” 

“ Of course, I mean that,” answered the other; and, turning 
to Euphrasia, continued : — 

“ I must say I consider it rather courageous of him to dare 
the spectre as he does, for he cannot say he disbe ieves in her. 
But come and sing me one of the old songs,” he added, in an 
under-tone 


11 


258 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Euphra allowed him to lead her to the piano ; but, instead 
of singing a song to him, she played some noisy music, through 
which he and she contrived to talk for some time, without being 
overheard ; after which he left the room. Euphra then looked 
round to Hugh, and begged him with her eyes to come to her. 
He could not resist, burning with jealousy as he was. 

u Are you sure you have nerve enough for this, Hugh?” 
she said, still playing. 

‘ 1 1 have had nerve enough to sit still and look at you for 
the last half hour,” answered Hugh, rudely. 

She turned pale, and glanced up at him with a troubled 
look. Then, without responding to his answer, said : — 

“ I dare say the count is not over-anxious to hold you to 
your bet.” 

“ Pray intercede for me with the count , madam,” answered 
Hugh, sarcastically. 11 He would not wish the young fool to 
be frightened, I dare say. But perhaps he wishes to have an 
interview with the ghost himself, and grudges me the privi- 
lege.” 

She turned deadly pale this time, and gave him one terrified 
glance, but made no other reply to his words. Still she played 
on. 

“ You will arm yourself? ” 

“ Against a ghost? Yes, with a stout heart.” 

“ But don’t forget the secret door through which we came 
that night , Hugh. I distrust the count.” 

The last words were spoken in a whisper, emphasized into 
almost a hiss. 

“ Tell him I shall be armed. I tell you I shall meet him 
bare-handed. Betray me if you like.” 

Hugh had taken his revenge, and now came the reaction. 
He gazed at Euphra; but instead of the injured look, which 
was the best he could hope to see, an expression of “ pity and 
ruth ” grew slowly in her face, making it more lovely than ever 
in his eyes. At last she seemed on the point of bursting into 
tears ; and, suddenly changing the music, she began playing a 
dead-march. She kept her eyes on the keys. Once more, 
only, she glanced round, to see whether Hugh was still by her side : 
and he saw that her face was pale as death, and wet with silent 
tears. H } had never seen her weep before. He would have 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


259 


fallen at her feet, had he been alone with her. To hide his 
feelings, he left the room, and then the house. 

He wandered into the Ghost’s Walk ; and, finding himself 
there, walked up and down in it. This was certainly throwing 
the lady a bold challenge, seeing he was going to spend the 
night in her room. 

The excitement into which jealousy had thrown him had 
oeen suddenly checked by the sight of Euphra’s tears. The 
reaction, too, after his partial intoxication, had already began 
to set in ; to be accounted for partly by the fact that its source 
had been chiefly champagne, and partly by the other fact, that 
he had bound himself in honor to dare a spectre in her own 
favorite haunt. 

On the other hand, the sight of Euphra’s emotion had given 
him a far better courage than jealousy or wine could afford. 
Yet, after ten minutes passed in the shadows of the Ghost’s 
Walk, he would not have taken the bet at ten times its amount. 

But to lose it now would have been a serious affair for him, 
the disgrace of failure unconsidered. If he could have lost a 
hundred guineas, it would have been comparatively a slight 
matter ; but to lose a bet, and be utterly unable to pay it. 
would be disgraceful, — no better than positive cheating. He 
had not thought of this at the time. Nor even now was it 
more than a passing thought; for he had not the smallest 
desire to recede. The ambition of proving his courage to 
Euphra, and, far more, the strength just afforded him by the 
sight of her tears, were quite sufficient to carry him on to the 
ordeal. Whether they would carry him through it with dignity 
he did not ask himself. 

And, after all, would the ghost appear ? At the best, she 
might not come ; at the very worst, she would be but a ghost ; 
and he could say with Hamlet : — 

« for my soul, what can it do to that, 

Being a thing immortal as itself? ” 


But then, his jealousy having for the moment intermittea, 
Hugh was not able to say with Hamlet : — 

“ I do not set my life a a pin’s fee ; ” 


260 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


and that had much to do with Hamlet’s courage in the affair 
of the ghost. 

He walked up and down the avenue, till, beginning to feel 
the night chilly, he began to feel the avenue eerie ; for cold is 
very antagonistic tc physical courage. But what refuge would 
he find in the ghost’s room ? 

He returned to the drawing-room. Yon Funkelstein and 
Euphra were there alone, but in no proximity. Mr. Arnold 
soon entered. 

“ Shall I have the bed prepared for you, Mr. Sutherland? ” 
said Euphra. 

u Which of your maids will you persuade to that office?” 
said Mr. Arnold, with a facetious expression. 

“ I must do it myself,” answered Euphra, “ if Mr. Suther- 
land persists.” 

Hugh saw, or thought he saw, the Bohemian dart an angry 
glance at Euphra, who shrank under it. But before he could 
speak, Mr. Arnold rejoined : — 

“You can make a bed, then? That is the housemaid’s 
phrase, — is it not ? ” 

“ I can do anything another can, uncle.” 

“ Bravo ! Can you see the ghost ? ” 

“Yes,” she answered, with a low lingering on the sibilant; 
looking round, at the same time, with an expression that im- 
plied a hope that Hugh had heard it ; as indeed he did. 

“ What ! Euphra too ? ” said Mr. Arnold, in a tone of gentle 
contempt. 

“ Do not disturb the ghost’s bed for me,” said Hugh. “ It 
would be a pity to disarrange it, after it has lain so for an age. 
Besides, I need not rouse the wrath of the poor spectre more 
than can’t be helped. If I must sleep in her room, I need not 
sleep in her bed. I will lie on the old couch. Herr Yon 
Funkelstein, what proof shall I give you ? ” 

“ Your word, Mr. Sutherland,” replied Funkelstein, with a 
bow. 

“ Thank you At what hour must I be there ? ” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know. By eleven I should think. Oh ! any 
time before midnight. That’s the ghost’s own, is it not ? It 
is now — let me see — almost ten.” 

' Then I will go at once ” said Hugh, thinking it better to 


DAVID ELGINBROR. 


261 


meet the gradual approach of the phantom-hour in the room 
itself, than to walk there through the desolate house, and enter 
the room just as the fear would be gathering thickest within it. 
Besides, he was afraid that his courage might have broken 
down a little by that time, and that he would not be able to 
conceal entirely the anticipative dread, whose inroad he had 
reason to apprehend. 

“ I have one good cup of tea yet, Mr. Sutherland,” said 
Euphra. “ Will you not strengthen your nerves with that, 
before we lead you to the tomb? ” 

“ Then she will go with me,” thought Hugh. “I will, 
thank you, Miss Cameron.” 

lie approached the table at which she stood pouring out the 
cup of tea. She said, low and hurriedly, without raising her 
head : — 

“ Don’t go, dear Hugh. You don’t know what may hap- 
pen.” 

“ I will go, Euphra. Not even you shall prevent me. 

“ I will pay the wager for you, — lend you the money.” 

“ Euphra /” — The tone implied many things. 

Mr. Arnold approached. Other conversation followed. 
As half-past ten chimed from the clock on the chimney-piece, 
Hugh rose to go. 

“ I will just get a book from my room,” he said; “and 
then perhaps Herr von Funkelstein will be kind enough to see 
me make a beginning at least.” 

“ Certainly I will. I advise you to let the book be Edgar 
Poe’s Tales.” 

“No. I shall need all the courage I have, I assure you. 
I shall find you here? ” 

“Yes.” ^ . . 

Huo-h went to his room, and washed his face and hands. 
Before doing so, he pulled off his finger a ring of considerable 
value, which had belonged to his father. As he was leaving 
the room to return to the company, he remembered that he 
had left the ring on the wash-hand-stand He generally left 
it there at night; but now he bethought himself that, as he 
was not going to sleep in the room, it might be as well to 
place it in the escritoire. He opened the secret place, and 
laid the diamond beside his poems and the crystal ring belong- 


262 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


ing to Mr. Arnold. This done, he took t.p his bock again, 
and, returning to the drawing-room, found the whole party 
prepared to accompany him. Mr. Arnold had the keys. 
Yon Funkelstein and he went first, and Hugh followed with 
Euphra. 

“ We will not contribute to your discomfiture by locking 
the doors on the way, Mr. Sutherland,’’ said Mr. Arnold. 

“ That is, you will not compel me to win the wager In spite 
of my fears,” said Hugh. 

“ But you will let the ghost loose on the household,” said 
the Bohemian, laughing. 

“ I will be responsible for that,” replied Mr. Arnold. 

Euphra drooped a little behind with Hugh. 

“Remember the secret passage,” said she. “ You can get 
out when you will, whether they lock the door or not. Don’t 
carry it too far, Hugh.” 

“ The ghost you mean, Euphra. — I don’t think I shall,” 
said Hugh, laughing. But as he laughed, an involuntary 
shudder passed through him. 

“ Have I stepped over my own grave ? ” thought he. 

They reached the room, and entered. Hugh would have 
begged them to lock him in, had he not felt that his knowledge 
of the secret door would, although he intended no use of it, 
render such a proposal dishonorable. They gave him the key 
of the door, to lock it on the inside, and bade him good-niglit. 
They were just leaving him, when Hugh, on whom a new light 
had broken at last, in the gradual restoration of his faculties, 
said to the Bohemian : — 

“ One word with you, Herr von Funkelstein, if you 
please.” 

Funkelstein followed him into the room ; when Hugh, half- 
closing the door, said : — 

“ I trust to your sympathy, as a gentleman, not to misun- 
derstand me. I wagered a hundred guineas with you in the 
heat of after-dinner talk. I am not at present worth a hun- 
dred shillings.” 

“ Oh ! ” began Funkelstein, with a sneer, “ if you wish to 
get off on that ground — ” 

“ Herr von Funkelstein,” interrupted Hugh, in a very de- 
cided tone, “ I pointed to your sympathy as a gentleman, as 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


263 


the ground on which I had hoped to meet you now. If you 
have difficulty in finding that ground, another may be found 
to-morrow without much seeking. ” 

Hugh paused for a moment after making this grand speech ; 
but Funkelstein did not seem to understand him ; he stood in 
a waiting attitude. Hugh therefore went on : — 

u Meantime, what I wanted to say is this : I have just left 
a ring in my room, which, though in value considerably below 
the sum mentioned between us, may yet be a pledge of my 
good faith, in as far as it is of infinitely more value to me 
than can be reckoned in money. It was the property of one 
who by birth, and perhaps by social position as well, was Herr 
von Funkelstein’ s equal. The ring is a diamond, and belonged 
to my father.” 

Yon Funkelstein merely replied : — 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Sutherland, for misunderstanding 
you. The ring is quite an equivalent.” And, making him a 
respectful bow, he turned and left him. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE LADY EUPHRASIA. 

The black jades of swart night trot foggy rings 
’Bout heaven’s brow. ’Tis now stark dead night. 

John Marston. — Second Part of Antonio and Mellida. 

As soon as Hugh was alone, his first action was to lock the 
door by which he had entered ; his next was to take the key 
from the lock, and put it in his pocket. He then looked if 
there were any other fastenings, and finding an old tarnished 
brass bolt as well, succeeded in making it do its duty for the 
first time that century, which required some persuasion, as may 
he supposed. He then turned towards the other door. As he 
crossed the room, he found four candles, a decanter of port, 
and some biscuits, on a table, — placed there, no doubt, by the 
kind hand of Euphra. He vowed to himself that he would not 


264 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


touch the wine. “ I have had enough of that for one night, ” 
said he. But he lighted the candles ; and then saw that the 
couch was provided with plenty of wraps for the night. One 
of them — he recognized, to his delight — was a Cameron 
tartan, often worn by Euphra. He buried his face in it for a 
moment, and drew from it fresh courage. He then went into 
the furthest recess, lifted the tapestry, and proceeded to fasten 
the concealed door. But, to his discomfiture, he could find no 
fastening upon it. “ No doubt,” thought he, “it does fasten, 
in some secret way or other.” But he could discover none 
There was no mark of bolt or socket to show whence one hac 
been removed, nor sign of friction to indicate that the door had 
ever been made secure in such fashion. It closed with a spring. 

“Then,” said Hugh, apostrophizing the door, “I must 
watch you.” 

As, however, it was not yet near the time when ghosts are 
to be expected, and as he felt very tired, he drank one glass 
of the wine, and, throwing himself on the couch, drew Eu- 
phra’s shawl over him, opened his book, and began to read. 
But the words soon vanished in a bewildering dance, and he 
slept. 

He started awake in that agony of fear in which I suppose 
most people have awaked in the night, once or twice in their 
lives. He felt that he was not alone. But the feeling seemed, 
when he recalled it, to have been altogether different from that 
with which we recognize the presence of the most unwelcome 
bodily visitor. The whole of his nervous skeleton seemed to 
shudder and contract. Every sense was intensified to the acme 
of its acuteness ; while the powers of volition were inoperative. 
He could not move a finger. 

The moment in which he first saw the object I am about to 
describe, he could not recall. The impression made seemed to 
have been too strong for the object receiving it, destroying 
thus its own traces, as an overheated brand-iron would in dry 
timber. Or it may be that, after such a presensation, the 
cause of ic could not surprise him. 

He saw, a few paces off, bending as if looking down upon 
him, a face which, if described as he described it, would be 
pronounced as far past the most liberal boundary-line of art, 
as itself had passed beyond that degree of change at which u 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


265 


human countenance is fit for the upper world no longer, and 
must be hidden away out of sight. The lips were dark, and 
drawn back from the closed teeth, which were white as those 
of a skull. There were spots, — in fact, the face corresponded 
exactly to the description given by Funkelstein of the reported 
ghost of Lady Euphrasia. The dress was point for point cor- 
respondent to that in the picture. Had the portrait of Lady 
Euphrasia been hanging on the wall above, instead of the por- 
trait of the unknown nun, Hugh would have thought, as far as 
dress was concerned, that it had come alive, and stepped from 
its frame, — except for one thing : there was no ring on the 
thumb. 

It was wonderful to himself afterwards that he should have 
observed all these particulars; but the fact was, that they 
rather burnt themselves in upon his brain, than were taken 
notice of by him. They returned upon him afterwards by de- 
grees, as one becomes sensible of the pain of a wound. 

But there was one sign of life. Though the eyes were 
closed, tears flowed from them, and seemed to have worn 
channels for their constant flow down this face of death, which 
ought to have been lying still in the grave, returning to its 
dust, and was weeping above ground instead. The figure 
stood for a moment as one who would gaze, could she but open her 
heavy, death-rusted eyelids. Then, as if in hopeless defeat, 
she turned away. And then, to crown the horror literally as 
well as figuratively, Hugh saw that her hair sparkled and 
gleamed goldenly, as the hair of a saint might, if the aureole 
were combed down into it. She moved towards the door with 
a fettered pace, such as one might attribute to the dead if 
they walked. To the dead body I say, not to the living ghost; 
to that which has lain in the prison-hold till the joints are de- 
cayed with the grave-damps, and the muscles are stiff with 
more than deathly cold. She dragged one limb after the other 
slowly and, to appearance, painfully, as she moved towards the 
door which Hugh had locked. 

When she had gone half-way to the door, Hugh, lying as he 
was on a couch, could see her feet, for her dress did not reach 
the ground. They were bare, as the feet of the dead ought 
to be, which are about to tread softly in the realm of Hades. 
But how stained and mouldy and iron-spotted, as if the rain 


266 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


had been soaking through the spongy coffin, did the dresa show 
beside the pure whiteness of those exquisite feet ! Not a sign 
of the tomb was upon them. Small, living, delicately formed, 
Hugh, could he have forgotten the face they bore above, might 
have envied the floor which in their nakedness they seemed to 
^ress, so lingeringly did they move from it in their noiseless 
r egress. 

She reached the door, put out her hand and touched it. 
*iugh saw it open outwards and let her through. Nor did this 
strike him as in the smallest degree marvellous. It closed 
again behind her noiseless as her footfalls. 

The moment she vanished the power of motion returned 
to him, and Hugh sprang to his feet. He leaped to the door. 
With trembling hand he inserted the key, and the lock creaked 
as he turned it. 

In proof of his being in tolerable possession of his faculties 
at the moment, and that what he was relating to me actually 
incurred, he told me that he remembered at once that he had 
heard that peculiar creak a few moments before Euphra and 
he discovered that they were left alone in this very chamber. 
He had never thought of it before. 

Still the door would not open ; it was bolted as well, and 
the bolt was very stiff to withdraw. But at length he suc- 
ceeded. 

When he reached the passage outside, he thought he saw 
the glimmer of a light, perhaps in the picture-gallery beyond. 
Towards this he groped his way. He could never account for the 
fact that he left the candles burning in the room behind him and 
went forward into the darkness, except by supposing that his 
wits had gone astray in consequence of the shock the appari- 
tion had occasioned them. — When he reached the gallery 
there was no light there ; but somewhere in the distance he 
saw, or fancied, a faint shimmer. 

The impulse to go towards it was too strong to be disputed 
with. He advanced with outstretched arms groping. After 
a few steps he had lost all idea of where he was, or how he 
ought to proceed in order to reach any known quarter. The 
light had vanished. He stood. — Was that a stealthy step 
he heard beside him in the dark ? He had nc time to specu- 
late, for the next moment he fell senseless. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


267 


CHAPTER XL. 

NEXT MORNING. 


Darkness is fled : look, infant morn hath drawn 
Bright silver curtains ’bout the couch of night; 

And now Aurora’s horse trots azure rings, 

Breathing fair light about the firmament. 

Stand; what’s that? 

John Marston. — Second Part of Antonio and Mellida. 


When he came to himself it was with a slow flowing of the 
tide of consciousness. His head ached. Had he fallen down- 
stairs ? — or had he struck his head against some projection 
and so stunned himself? The last he remembered was — • 
standing quite still in the dark, and hearing something. Had 
he been knocked down? He could not tell. Where was 
he ? Could the ghost have been all a dream, and this head- 
ache be nature’s revenge upon last night’s wine ? For he 
lay on the couch in the haunted chamber, and on his bosom 
lay the book over which he had dropped asleep. 

Mingled with all this doubt there was another. For he re- 
membered that, when consciousness first returned, he felt as if 
he had seen Euphra’s face bending down close over his. — ■ 
Could it be possible ? Had Euphra herself come to see how 
he had fared ? The room lay in the gray light of the dawn, 
but Euphra was nowhere visible. Could she have vanished, 
ashamed, through the secret door ? Or had she been only a 
fantasy, a projection outwards of the form that dwelt in his 
brain? — a phenomenon often occurring when the last of sleeping 
and the first of waking are indistinguishably blended in a vague 
consciousness. 

But if it was so, then the ghost ? — What of it? Had not 
his brain, by the events of the preceding evening, been 
similarly prepared with regard to it? Was it not more likely, 
after all, that she, too, was the offspring of his own imagination , 
— the power that makes images, — especially when considered, 
that she exactly corresponded to the description given by the 
Bohemian ? But had he not observed many points at which 
the count had not even hinted ? Still, it was as natural to 
expect that an excited imagination should supply the details 


268 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


of a wholly imaginary spectacle as that, given the idea of 
Euphra’s presence, it should present the detail of her counte- 
nance ; for the creation of that which is not belongs as much 
to the realm of the imagination as the reproduction of that 
which is. 

It seemed very strange to Hugh himself, that he should be 
able thus to theorize, before even he had raised himself from 
the couch on which perhaps, after all, he had lain without 
moving throughout that terrible night, swarming with the 
horrors of the dead that would not sleep. But the long un- 
consciousness in which he had himself visited the regions of 
death seemed to have restored him, in spite of his aching head, 
to perfect mental equilibrium. Or at least his brain was quiet 
enough to let his mind work. Still, he felt very ghastly 
within. He raised himself on his elbow, and looked into the 
room. Everything was the same as it had been the night be- 
fore, only with an altered aspect in the dawn-light. The 
dawn has a peculiar terror of its own, sometimes perhaps even 
more real in character, but very different from the terrors of 
the night and of candle-light. The room looked as if no ghost 
could have passed through its still old musty atmosphere, so 
perfectly reposeful did it appear ; and yet it seemed as if some 
umbra , some temporary and now cast-off body of the ghost, 
must be lying or lingering somewhere about it. He rose 
and peeped into the recess where the cabinet stood. Nothing 
was there but the well-remembered carving and blackness. 
Having once yielded to the impulse, he could not keep from 
peering every moment, now into one, and now into another, 
of the many hidden corners. The next suggesting itself for 
examination was always one he could not see from where he 
stood ; after all, even in the daylight, there might be some 
dead thing there, — who could tell ? But he remained man- 
fully at his post till the sun rose ; till bell after bell rang 
from the turret; till, in short, Eunkelstein came to fetch 
him. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Sutherland,” said he. “How have 
you slept? ” 

“Like a — somnambulist,” answered Hugh, choosing the 
word for its intensity. “ I slept so sound that I woke quite 
early.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


269 


“ 1 am glad to hear it. But it is nearly tine for breakfast, 
fcr which ceremony I am myself hardly in trim yet.” 

So saying, Funkelstein turned, and walked away with some 
precipitation. What occasioned Hugh a little surprise was, 
that he did not ask him one question more as to how he had 
passed the night. He had, of course, slept in the house, 
seeing he presented himself in dishabille. 

Hugh hastened to his own room, where, under the anti- 
ghostial influences of the bath, he made up his mind not to say 
a word about the apparition to any one. 

u Well, Mr. Sutherland, how have you spent the night?” 
said Mr. Arnold, greeting him. 

“ I slept with profound stupidity,” answered Hugh, — “a 
stupidity, in fact, quite worthy of the folly of the preceding 
wager.” 

This was true, as relating to the time during which he had 
slept, but was of course false in the impression it gave. 

“Bravo!” exclaimed Mr. Arnold, with an unwonted im- 
pulsiveness. “ The best mood, I consider, in which to meet 
such creations of other people’s brains ! And you positively 
passed a pleasant night in the awful chamber ? That is some- 
thing to tell Euphra. But she is not down yet. You have 
restored the character of my house, Mr. Sutherland ; and, next 
to his own character, a man ought to care for that of his 
house. I am greatly in your debt, sir.” 

At this moment Euphra’ s maid brought the message that 
her mistress was sorry she was unable to appear at break- 
fast. 

Mrs. Elton took her place. 

u The day is so warm and still, Mr. Arnold, that I think 
Lady Emily might have a drive to-day. Perhaps Miss Came- 
ron may be able to join us by that time.” 

“ I cannot think what is the matter with Euphra,” said Mr. 
Arnold. “ She never used to be affected in this way.” 

1 1 Should you not seek some medical opinion?” said Mrs. 
Elton. “ These constant headaches must indicate something 
wrong.” 

The constant headache had occurred just once before since 
Mrs. Elton had formed one of the family. After a pause Mr 
Arnold reverted to the former subject. 


270 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ You ire most welcome to the carriage, Mrs. Elton. I am 
sorry I cannot accompany you myself ; but I must go to town 
to-day. You can take Mr. Sutherland with you, if you like 
He will take care of you.” 

“ I shall be most happy,” said Hugh. 

“ So shall we all,” responded Mrs. Elton, kindly. “ Thank 
you, Mr. Arnold; though I am sorry you can’t go with us.” 

“ What hour shall I order the carriage ? ” 

“ About one, I think. Will Herr von Funkelstein favor 
us with his company ? ” 

“lam sorry,” replied Funkelstein ; “ but I, too, must leave 
for London to-day. Shall I have the pleasure of accompany- 
ing you, Mr. Arnold ? ” 

“With all my heart, if you can leave so early. I must go 
at once to catch the express train.” 

“ I shall be ready in ten minutes.” 

“ Very well.” 

“ Pray, Mrs. Elton, make my adieus to Miss Cameron. I 
am concerned to hear of her indisposition.” 

“With pleasure. I am going to her now. Good-by.” 

As soon as Mrs. Elton left the breakfast-room, Mr. Arnold 
rose, saying : — 

“ I will walk round to the stable and order the carriage 
myself. I shall then be able, through your means, Mr. 
Sutherland, to put a stop to these absurd rumors in person. 
Not that I mean to say anything direct, as if I had placed any 
importance upon it ; but, the coachman being an old servant, I 
shall be able through him to send the report of your courage, 
and its result, all over the house.” 

This was a very gracious explanation of his measures. As 
he concluded it, he left the room, without allowing time for 
a reply. 

Hugh had not expected such an immediate consequence of his 
policy, and felt rather uncomfortable ; but he soon consoled 
himself by thinking, “ At least it will do no harm.” 

While Mr. Arnold was speaking, Funkelstein had been 
writing at a side table. He now handed Hugh a cheque on 
a London banking-house for a hundred guineas. Hugh, in 
his innocence, could not help feeling ashamed of gaining such 
a suw by such means; for betting, like tobacco -smoking, needs 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


271 


a special training before it can be carried out quite comfortably, 
especially by the winner, if he be at all of a generous nature. 
But he felt that to show the least reluctance would place hin 
at great disadvantage with a man of the world like the count. 
He therefore thanked him slightly, and thrust the cheque into 
his trowsers-pocket, as if a greater sum of money than he had 
ever handled before were nothing more for him to win than 
the count would choose it to be considered for him to lose. He 
thought with himself : “ Ah ! well, I need not make use of it ; ” 
and repaired to the school-room. 

Here he found Harry waiting for him, looking tolerably 
well, and tolerably happy. This was a great relief to Hugh, 
for he had not seen him at the breakfast-table, Harry having 
risen early and breakfasted before ; and he had felt very uneasy 
lest the boy should have missed him in the night (for they 
were still bedfellows), and should in consequence have had 
one of his dreadful attacks of fear. It was evident that this 
bad not taken place. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


AN ACCIDENT. 


There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. 

Hamlet . 


When Mrs. Elton left the breakfast-table, she went straight 
to Miss Cameron’s room to inquire after her, expecting to find 
her maid with her. But when she knocked at the door there 
was no reply. 

She went therefore to her own room, and sent her maid to 
find Euphra’s maid. 

She came. 

u Is your mistress going to get up to-day, Jane?” asked 
Mrs. Elton. 

“ I don’t know, ma’am. She has not rung yet.” 

“ Have you not been to see how she .is? ” 


272 


DAVID EI.GINBROD. 


“No, ma’am.” 

“ How was it you brought that message at breakfast, 
then? ” 

Jane looked confused, and did not reply. 

“ Jane ! ” said Mrs. Elton, in a tone of objurgation. 

“ Well, ma’am, she told me to say so,” answered Jane. 

‘ c How did she tell you ? ” 

Jane paused again. 

“ Through the door, ma’am,” she answered at length; and 
then muttered, that they would make her tell lies by asking 
her questions she couldn’t answer; and she wished she was 
out of the house, that she did. 

Mrs. Elton heard this, and, of course, felt considerably 
puzzled. 

“Will you go now, please, and inquire after your mistress, 
with my compliments ? ” 

“ I daren’t, ma’am.” 

“ Daren’t ! What do you mean ? ” 

“ Well, ma’am, there is something about my mistress — ” 
Here she stopped abruptly ; but as Mrs. Elton stood expect- 
ant, she tried to go on. All she could add, however, was, 
“No, ma’am ; I daren’t.” 

“ But there is no harm in going to her room.” 

“ Oh, no, ma’am. I go to her room, summer and winter, 
at seven o’clock every morning,” answered Jane, apparently 
glad to be able to say something. 

“ Why won’t you go now, then ? ” 

“ Why — why — because she told me — ” Here the girl 
stammered and turned pale. At length she forced out the 
words, “ She won't let me tell you why,” and burst into 
tears. 

“Won’t let you tell me?” repeated Mrs. Elton, beginning 
to think the girl must be out of her mind. Jane looked 
hurriedly over her shoulder, as if she expected to see her mis- 
tress standing behind her, and then 6aid, almost defiantly : — 

“ No, she won’t; and I can’t.” 

With these words, she hurried out of the room, while Mrs. 
Elton turned with baffled bewilderment to seek counsel from 
the face of Margaret. As to what all this meant, I am in 
doubt. I have recorded it as Margaret told it to Hugh after 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


273 


wards, — because it seems to indicate something. It shows 
evidently enough, that if Euphra had more than an usual influ- 
ence over servants in general, she had a great deal more over 
this maid in particular. Was this in virtue of a power 
similar to that of Count Halkar over herself? And was this, 
or something very different, or both combined, the art which 
he had accused her of first exercising upon him ? Might the 
fact that her defeat had resulted in such absolute subjection 
be connected with her possession of a power similar to his, 
which she had matched with his in vain ? Of course I only 
suggest these questions. I cannot answer them. 

At one o’clock, the carriage came round to the door; and 
Hugh, in the hope of seeing Euphra alone, was the first in the 
hall. Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily presently came, and pro- 
ceeded to take their places, without seeming to expect Miss 
Cameron. Hugh helped them into the carriage ; but, instead 
of getting in, lingered, hoping that Euphra was yet going to 
make her appearance. 

“I fear Miss Cameron is unable to join us,” said Mrs. 
Elton, divining his delay. 

“Shall I run upstairs, and knock at her door?” said 
Hugh. 

“ Do,” said Mrs. Elton, who, after the unsatisfactory con- 
versation she had held with her maid, had felt both uneasy and 
curious, all the morning. 

Hugh bounded upstairs ; but just as he was going to knock, 
the door opened, and Euphra appeared. 

“ Dear Euphra ! how ill you look ! ” exclaimed Hugh. 

She was pale as death, and dark under the eyes ; and had 
evidently been weeping. 

“ Hush ! hush ! ” she answered. “ Never mind. It is only 
a bad headache. Don’t take any notice of it.” 

“The carriage is at the door. Will you not come with 
ns?” 

“ With whom? ” 

“Lady Emily and Mrs. Elton.” 

“ I am sick of them.” 

“Iam going, Euphra.” 

“ Stay with me.” 

“ I must go. I promised to take care of them.” 

18 


274 


DAVID ELGISBROD. 


“Oh, nonsense! What should happen to them? Stay 
with me.” 

4 No. I am very sorry. I wish I could.” 

1 Then I must go with you, I suppose.” Yet her tone ex- 
pr essed annoyance. 

“ Oh ! thank you,” cried Hugh, in delight. “ Make haste. 
I will run down, and tell them to wait.” 

He bounded away, and told the ladies that Euphra would 
join them in a few minutes. 

But Euphra was cool enough to inflict on them quite 
twenty minutes of waiting ; by which time she was able to be- 
have with tolerable propriety. When she did appear at last, 
she was closely veiled, and stepped into the carriage without 
once showing her face. But she made a very pretty apology 
for the delay she had occasioned ; which was certainly due, 
seeing it had been perfectly intentional. She made room for 
Hugh ; he took his place beside her, and away they drove. 

Euphra scarcely spoke; but begged indulgence, on the 
ground of her headache. Lady Emily enjoyed the drive very 
much, and said a great many pleasant little nothings. 

“ Would you like a glass of milk ? ” said Mrs. Elton to her, 
as they passed a farm-house on the estate. 

“ I should — very much,” answered Lady Emily. 

The carriage was stopped, and the servant sent to beg a 
glass of milk. Euphra, who, from riding backward with a 
headache, had been feeling very uncomfortable for some time, 
wished to get out while the carriage was waiting. Hugh 
jumped out, and assisted her. She walked a little way, lean- 
ing on his arm, up to the house, where she had a glass of 
water ; after which she said she felt better, and returned with 
him to the carriage. In getting in again, either from the 
carelessness or the weakness occasioned by suffering, her foot 
slipped from the step, and she fell with a cry of alarm. Hugh 
caught her as she fell ; and she would not have been much 
injured, had not the horses started and sprung forward at the 
moment, so that the hind wheel of the carriage passed over her 
ankle. Hugh, raising her in his arms, found she was insensi- 
ble. 

He laid her down upon the grass by the roadside. Water 
was procured, but she showed no sign of recovering. \Vhat 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


275 


to be done ? Mrs. Elton thought she had better be carried 
to the farm-house. Hugh judged it better to take her home at 
once. To this, after a little argument, Mrs. Elton agreed. 

They lifted her into the carriage, and made what arrange- 
ments they best could to allow her to recline. Blood was flow- 
ing from her foot; and it was so much swollen that it was 
impossible to guess at the amount of the injury. The foot 
was already twice the size of the other, in which Hugh for the 
first time recognized such a delicacy of form, as, to his fastid- 
ious eye and already ensnared heart, would have been perfectly 
enchanting, but for the agony he suffered from the injury to 
the other. Yet he could not help the thought crossing his 
mind, that her habit of never lifting her dress was a very 
strange one, and that it must have had something to do with 
the present accident. I cannot account for this habit, but on 
one of two suppositions : that of an affected delicacy, or that of 
the desire that the beauty of her feet should have its full 
power, from being rarely seen. But it was dreadful to think 
how far the effects of this accident might permanently injure 
the beauty of one of them. 

Hugh would have walked home that she might have more 
room, but he knew he could be useful when they arrived. 
He seated himself so as to support the injured foot, and pre- 
vent, in some measure, the torturing effects of the motion of 
the carriage. When they had gone about half-way, she opened 
her eyes feebly, glanced at him, and closed them again with a 
moan of pain. 

He carried her in his arms up to her own room, and laid her 
on a couch. She thanked him by a pitiful attempt at a smile. 
He mounted his horse, and galloped for a surgeon. 

The injury was a serious one ; but, until the swelling could 
be a little reduced, it was impossible to tell how serious. The 
surgeon, however, feared that some of the bones of the ankle 
might be crushed. The ankle seemed to be dislocated, and the 
suffering was frightful. She endured it well, however, — so 
far as absolute silence constitutes endurance. 

Hugh’s misery was extreme. The surgeon had required 
bis assistance ; but a suitable nurse soon arrived, and there 
was no pretext for his further presence in the sick-chambei 
He wandered about the grounds. Harry haunted his steps like 


276 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


a spaniel. The poor boy feJt it much ; aad the suffering ab- 
straction of Hugh sealed up his chief well of comfort. At 
length he went to Mrs. Elton, who did her best to console 
him. 

By the surgeon’s express orders, every one but the nurse 
was excluded from Euphra’s room. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

MORE TROUBLES. 


Come on and do your best 

To night me with your sprites: you’re powerful at it. 

You smell this business with a sense as cold 

As is a dead man’s nose. 

A Winter's Tale. 

When Mr. Arnold came home to dinner, and heard of the 
accident, his first feeling, as is the case with weak men, was 
one of mingled annoyance and anger. Hugh was the chief 
object of it ; for had he not committed the ladies to his care ? 
And the economy of his house being partially disarranged by 
it, had he not a good right to be angry ? His second feeling 
was one of concern for his niece, which was greatly increased 
when he found that she was not in a state to see him. Still 
nothing must interfere with the order of things ; and when 
Hugh went into the drawing-room at the usual hour, he 
found Mr. Arnold standing there in tail coat and white neck- 
cloth, looking as if he had just arrived at a friend’s house, to 
make one of a stupid party. And the party which sat down 
to dinner, was certainly dreary enough, consisting only, be- 
sides the host himself, of Mrs. Elton, Hugh, and Harry. 
Lady Emily had had exertion enough for the day, and had be- 
sides shared in the shock of Euphra’s misfortune. 

Mr. Arnold was considerably out of humor, and ready to 
pounce upon any object of complaint. He would have at- 
tacked Hugh with a pompous speech on the subject of his care- 


DAVID ELGINBEOD. 


277 


lessness ; but he was rather afraid of his tutor now ; — so cer« 
tainly will the stronger get the upper hand in time. He did 
not even refer to the subject of the accident. Therefore, al- 
though it filled the minds of all at table, it was scarcely more 
than alluded to. But having nothing at hand to find fault 
with more suitable, he laid hold of the first wise remark vol- 
unteered by good Mrs. Elton ; whereupon an amusing pas de 
deux immediately followed ; for it could not be called a duel, 
inasmuch as each antagonist kept skipping harmlessly about 
the other, exploding theological crackers, firmly believed by 
the discharger to be no less than bomb-shells. At length Mrs. 
Elton withdrew. 

“ By the way, Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Arnold, “ have 
you succeeded in deciphering that curious inscription yet? I 
don’t like the ring to remain long out of my own keeping. It 
is quite an heirloom, I assure you.” 

Hugh was forced to confess that he had never thought of it 
again. 

“ Shall I fetch it at once? ” added he. 

“ Oh ! no,” replied Mr. Arnold. “ I should really like to 
understand the inscription. To-morrow will do perfectly 
well.” 

They went to the drawing-room. Everything was wretched. 
However many ghosts might be in the house, it seemed to 
Hugh that there was no soul in it except in one room. The 
wind sighed fitfully, and the rain fell in slow, soundless 
showers. Mr. Arnold felt the vacant oppression as well as 
Hugh. Mrs. Elton having gone to Lady Emily’s room, he 
proposed backgammon ; and on that surpassing game the gen- 
tlemen expended the best part of two dreary hours. When 
Hugh reached his room he was too tired and spiritless for any 
intellectual effort ; and, instead of trying to decipher the ring, 
went to bed, and slept as if there were never a ghost or a woman 
in the universe. 

His first proceeding, after breakfast next day, was to get 
together his German books ; and his next to take out the ring, 
which was to be subjected to their analytical influences. He 
went to his desk, and opened the secret place. There he 
stood fixed. The ring was gone. His packet of papers was 
there, rather crumpled ; the ring was nowhere. What had 


278 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


become of it ? It was not long before a conclusion suggested 
itself. It flashed upon him all at once. 

“ The ghost has got it,” he said, half aloud. “It is shining 
now on her dead finger. It teas Lady Euphrasia. She was 
going for it then. It wasn’t on her thumb when she went. She 
came back with it, shining through the dark — stepped over 
me, perhaps, as I lay on the floor in her way.” 

He shivered, like one in an ague-fit. 

Again and again, with that frenzied, mechanical motion, 
which, like the eyes of a ghost, has “no speculation” in it, 
he searched the receptacle, although it freely confessed its 
emptiness to any asking eye. Then he stood gazing, and his 
heart seemed to stand still likewise. 

But a new thought stung him, turning him almost sick with 
a sense of loss. Suddenly and frantically he dived his hand 
into the place yet again, useless as he knew the search to be. 
He took up his papers, and scattered them loose. It was all 
unavailing ; his father’s ring was gone as well. 

He sank on a chair for a moment ; but, instantly recovering, 
found himself, before he was quite aware of his own resolution, 
half way downstairs, on his way to Mr. Arnold's room. It 
was empty. He rang for his servant. Mr. Arnold had gone 
away on horseback, and would not be home till dinner-time. 
Counsel from Mrs. Elton was hopeless. Help from Euphra 
he could not ask. He returned to his own room. There he 
found Harry waiting for him. His neglected pupil was now 
his only comforter. Such are the revenges of divine goodness. 

“ Harry ! ” he said, “I have been robbed.” 

“ Robbed ! ” cried Harry, starting up. “ Never mind, Mr. 
Sutherland; my papa’s a justice of the peace. He’ll catch 
the thief for you.” 

“ But it’s your papa’s ring that they’ve stolen. He lent it 
to me, and what if he should not believe me?” 

“ Not believe you, Mr. Sutherland? But he must believe 
you I will tell him all about it ; and he knows I never told 
him a lie in my life.” 

“ But you don’t know anything about it, Harry.” 

“ But you will tell me, won’t you ? ” 

Hugh could not help smiling with pleasure at the confi- 
dence his pupil placed in him. He had not much fear about 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


279 


being believed, but, at the best, it was an unpleasant occur- 
rence. 

The loss of his own ring not only added to his vexation, but 
to his perplexity as well. What could she want with his ring ? 
Could she have carried with her such a passion for jewels, as 
to come from the grave to appropriate those of others as well 
as to reclaim her own ? Was this her comfort in Hades, “ poor 
ghost ” ? 

Would it be better to tell Mr. Arnold of the loss of both 
rings, or should he mention the crystal only ? He came to the 
conclusion that it would only exasperate him the more, and 
perhaps turn suspicion upon himself, if he communicated the 
fact that he, too, was a loser, and to such an extent ; for Hugh’s 
ring was worth twenty of the other, and was certainly as 
sacred as Mr. Arnold’s, if not so ancient. He would hear it 
in silence. If the one could not be found, there could cer- 
tainly be no hope of the other. 

Punctual as the clock, Mr. Arnold returned. It did not 
prejudice him in favor of the reporter of bad tidings, that he 
beo-o-ed a word with him before dinner, when that was on the 
pofnt of being served. It was, indeed, exceeding impolitic ; 
but Hugh would have felt like an impostor, had he sat down 
to the table before making his confession. 

“ Mr. Arnold, I am sorry to say I have been robbed, and in 
your house too.” 

“ In my house ? Of what, pray, Mr. Sutherland ? ” 

Mr. Arnold had taken the information as some weak men take 
any kind of information referring to themselves or their be- 
longings, — namely, as an insult. He drew himself up, and 
lowered portentously. 

“ Of your ring, Mr. Arnold.” 

11 Of — my — ring ? ” 

And he looked at his ring-finger, as if he could not under- 
stand the import of Hugh’s words. 

“ Of the ring you lent me to decipher,” explained Hugh. 

“ Do you suppose I do not understand you, Mr. Suther- 
land? A ring which has been in the family for two hundred 
years at least ! Robbed of if? In my house? You must 
have been disgracefully careless, Mr. Sutherlapd. You have 
lost it.” 


280 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


‘‘Mr. Arnold,” said Hugh, with dignity, “I am abov« 
using such a subterfuge, even if it were not certain to throw 
suspicion wiere it was undeserved.” 

Mr. Arnold was a gentleman as far as his self-importance 
allowed. He did not apologize for what he had said, but he 
changed his manner at once. 

“Iam quite bewildered, Mr. Sutherland. It is a very an- 
noying piece of news — for many reasons.” 

“ I can show you where I laid it, — in the safest corner in 
my room, I assure you.” 

“ Of course, of course. It is enough you say so. We must 
not keep the dinner waiting now. But after dinner I shall 
have all the servants up, and investigate the matter 
thoroughly.” 

“So,” thought Hugh with himself, “some one will be 
made a felon of, because the cursed dead go stalking about this 
infernal house at midnight, gathering their own old baubles. 
No, that will not do. I must at least tell Mr. Arnold what I 
know of the doings of the night.” 

So Mr. Arnold must still wait for his dinner ; or rather, 
which was really of more consequence in the eyes of Mr. Ar- 
nold, the dinner must be kept waiting for him. For order and 
custom were two of Mr. Arnold’s divinities ; and the economy 
of his whole nature was apt to be disturbed by any interrup- 
tion of their laws, such as the postponement of dinner for ten 
minutes. He was walking towards the door, and turned with 
some additional annoyance when Hugh addressed him again : — 

“ One moment, Mr. Arnold, if you please.” 

Mr. Arnold merely turned and waited. 

“ I fear I shall in some degree forfeit your good opinion by 
what I am about to say # but I must run the risk.” 

Mr. Arnold still waited. 

“ There is more about the disappearance of the ring than I 
Can understand.” 

“ Or I either, Mr. Sutherland.” 

“ But I must tell you what happened to myself, the night 
that I kept watch in Lady Euphrasia’s room.” 

“ Yoq said you slept s.oundly.” 

“ So I did, part of the time.” 

“ The 11 you kept back part of the truth ? ” 

“ I jAi(|. 


DAVID ELGINDROD. 


281 


c< Was that worthy of you ? ” 

“ I thought it best. I doubted myself.” 

“ What has caused you to change your mind now? ” 

1 1 This event about the ring.” 

“ What has that to do with it? How do you even know 
that it was taken on that night ? ” 

I I do not know ; for till this morning I had not opened 
the place where it lay ; I only suspect.” 

‘lama magistrate, Mr. Sutherland ; I would rather not bo 
prejudiced by suspicions.” 

“ The person to whom my suspicions refer is beyond your 
jurisdiction, Mr. Arnold.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ I will explain myself.” 

Hugh gave Mr. Arnold a hurried yet circumstantial sketch 
of the apparition he believed he had seen. 

u What am I to judge from all this? ” asked he, coldly, 
almost contemptuously. 

“ I have told you the facts ; of course I must leave the con- 
clusions to yourself, Mr. Arnold ; but I confess, for my part, 
that any disbelief I had in apparitions is almost entirely re- 
moved since — ” 

II Since you dreamed you saw one.” 

“ Since the disappearance of the ring,” said Hugh. 

“ Bah ! ” exclaimed Mr. Arnold, with indignation. “ Can 
a ghost fetch and carry like a spaniel ? Mr. Sutherland, I am 
ashamed to have such a reasoner for tutor to my son. Come to 
dinner, and do not let me hear another word of this folly. I 
beg you will not mention it to any one.” 

“I have been silent hitherto, Mr. Arnold; but circum- 
stances, such as the commitment of any one on the charge of 
stealing the ring, might compel me to mention the matter. It 
would be for the jury to determine whether it was relevant or 
not.” 

It was evident that Mr. Arnold was more annoyed at the 
imputation against the nocturnal habits of his house than at 
the loss of the ring, or even its possible theft by one of his ser- 
vants. He looked at Hugh for a moment as if he would break 
into a furious rage ; then his look gradually changed into one 
of suspicion, and, turning without another word, he led the 


282 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


way to the dining-room, followed by Hugh. To have a ghost 
held in his face in this fashion, one bred in his own house too, 
when he had positively declared his absolute contempt for 
every legend of the sort, was more than man could bear. He 
sat down to dinner in gloomy silence, breaking it only as often 
as he was compelled to do the duties of a host, which he per- 
formed with a greater loftiness of ceremony than usual. 

I'here was no summoning of the servants after dinner how* 
ever. Hugh’s -warning had been effectual. Nor was the sub- 
ject once more alluded to in Hugh’s hearing. No doubt Mr. 
Arnold felt that something ought to be done ; but I presume 
he never could make up his mind what that something ought 
to be. Whether any reasons for not prosecuting the inquiry had 
occurred to him upon further reflection, I am unable to tell. 
One thing is certain, — that from this time he ceased to behave 
to Hugh with that growing cordiality which he had shown him 
for weeks past. It was no great loss to Hugh ; but he felt it ; 
and all the more, because he could not help associating it with 
that look of suspicion, the remains of which were still discern- 
ible on Mr. Arnold’s face. Although he could not determine 
the exact direction of Mr. Arnold’s suspicions, he felt that they 
bore upon something associated with the crystal ring, and the 
story of the phantom-lady. Consequently, there was little 
more of comfort for him at Arnstead. 

Mr. Arnold, however, did not reveal his change of feeling 
so much by neglect as by ceremony, which, sooner than any- 
thing else, builds a wall of separation between those who meet 
every day. For the oftener they meet, the thicker and the 
faster are the bricks and mortar of cold politeness, evidently 
avoided insults, and subjected manifestations of dislike, laid 
together. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


283 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

A bird’s-eye view. 


Oh, cooks are crowing a merry midnight. 

I wot the wild-fowls are boding day; 

Give me my faith and troth again, 

And let me fare me on my way. 

Sae painfully she clam the wa’, 

She clam the wa’ up after him ; 

Hosen nor shoon upon her feet, 

She hadna time to put them on . 

Scotch Ballad. — Clerk Saunders. 


Dreary days passed. The reports of Euphra were aa 
favorable as the nature of the injury had left room to expect. 
Still they were but reports. Hugh could not see her, and the 
days passed drearily. He heard that the swelling was reduced, 
and that the ankle was found not to be dislocated, but that the 
bones were considerably injured, and that the final effect upon 
the use of the parts was doubtful. The pretty foot lay aching 
in Hugh’s heart. When Harry went to bed, he used to walk 
out and loiter about the grounds, full of anxious fears and no 
less anxious hopes. If the night was at all obscure, he would 
pass, as often as he dared, under Euphra’s window ; for all he 
could have of her now was a few rays from the same light that 
lighted her chamber. Then he would steal away down the 
main avenue, and thence watch the same light, whose . beams, 
in that strange play which the intellect will keep up in spite 
of, yet in association with, the heart, made a photo-mate- 
rialist of him. For he would now no longer believe in the pul- 
sations of an ethereal medium ; but — that the very, material 
rays which enlightened Euphra’s face, whether she waked or 
slept, stole and filtered through the blind and the gathered 
shadows, and entered in bodily essence into the mysterious 
convolutions of his brain, where his soul and heart sought and 

found them. , 

When a week had passed, she was so far recovered as to be 
able to see Mr. Arnold ; from whom Hugh heard, in a some- 
what reproachful tone, that she was but the wreck of her for- 
mer self. It was all that Hugh could do to restrain the natu- 


284 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


ral outbreak of his feelings. A fortnight passed, and she saw 
Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily for a few moments. They would 
have left before, but had yielded to Mr. Arnold’s entreaty, and 
were staying till Euphra should be at least able to be carried 
from her room. 

One day, when the visitors were out with Mr. Arnold, Jane 
brought a message to Hugh, requesting him to walk into Miss 
Cameron’s room, for she wanted to see him. Hugh felt his 
heart flutter as if doubting whether to stop at once, or to dash 
through its confining bars. He rose and followed the maid. 
He stood over Euphra, pale and speechless. She lay before 
him wasted and wan; her eyes twice their former size, but 
with half their former light ; her fingers long and transparent ; 
and her voice low and feeble. She had just raised herself with 
difficulty to a sitting posture, and the effort had left her more 
weary. 

‘ 1 Hugh ! ” she said, kindly. 

“ Dear Euphra ! ” he answered, kissing the little hand he 
held in his. 

She looked at him for a little while, and the tears rose in 
her eyes. 

“ Hugh, I am a cripple for life.” 

“ God forbid, Euphra ! ” was all he could reply. 

She shook her head mournfully. Then a strange, wild look 
came in her eyes, and grew till it seemed from them to over- 
flow and cover her whole face with a troubled expression, which 
increased to a look of dull agony. 

“ What is the matter, dear Euphra? ” said Hugh, in alarm. 
“ Is your foot very painful? ” 

She made no answer. She was looking fixedly at his hand. 

“ Shall I call Jane?” 

She shook her head. 

“ Can I do nothing for you ? ” 

“ No,” she answered, almost angrily. 

“ Shall I go, Euphra ? ” 

“Yes — yes. Go.” 

He left the room instantly. But a sharp though stifled cry 
of despair drew him back at a bound. Euphra had fainted. 

He rang the bell for Jane ; and lingered till he saw signs 
of returning consciousness. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


285 


What could this mean ? He was more perplexed with her 
than ever he had been. Cunning love, however, soon found 
a way of explaining it. A way ? — Twenty ways, — not one 
of them the way. 

Next day, Lady Emily brought him a message from 
Euphra — not to distress himself about her ; it was not his 
fault. 

This message the bearer of it understood to refer to the 
original accident, as the sender of it intended she should ; the 
receiver interpreted it of the occurrence of the day before, as 
the sender likewise intended. It comforted him. 

It had become almost a habit with Hugh to ascend the oak- 
tree in the evening, and sit alone, sometimes for hours, in the 
nest he had built for Harry. One time he took a book with 
him; another he went without; and now and then Harry ac- 
companied him. But I have already said that often after tea, 
when the house became oppressive to him from the longing to 
see Euphra, he would wander out alone ; when, even in the 
shadows of the coming night, he would sometimes climb the 
nest, and there sit, hearing all that the leaves whispered about 
the sleeping birds, without listening to a word of it, or trying 
to interpret it by the kindred sounds of his own inner world, 
and the tree-talk that went on there in secret. For the 
divinity of that inner world had abandoned it for the present, 
in pursuit of an earthly maiden. So its birds were silent, and 
its trees trembled not. 

An aging moon was feeling her path somewhere through 
the heavens ; but a thin veil of cloud was spread like a tent 
under the hyaline dome where she walked ; so that, instead of 
i white moon, there was a great white cloud to enlighten the 
earth, — a cloud soaked full of her pale rays. Hugh sat in 
the oak-nest. He knew not how long he had been there. 
Light after light was extinguished in the house, and still he 
sat there brooding, dreaming, in that state of mind in which to 
the good, good things come of themselves, and to the evil, evil 
things. The nearness of the Ghost’s Walk did not trouble him, 
for he was too much concerned about Euphra to fear ghost or 
demon. His mind heeded them not, and so was beyond their 
influence. 

But while he sat, he became aware of human voices. Ho 


286 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


looked out from his leafy screen, and saw once more, at the 
end of the Ghost’s Walk, a form clothed in white. But there 
were voices of two. He sent his soul into his ears to listen. 
A horrible, incredible, impossible idea forced itself upon him, 
— that the tones were those of Euphra and Funkelstein. The 
one voice was weak and complaining ; the other firm and 
strong. 

“ It must be some horrible ghost that imitates her,” he said 
to himself ; for he was nearly crazy at the very suggestion. 

He would see nearer, if only to get rid of that frightful 
insinuation of the tempter. He descended the tree noiselessly. 
He lost sight of the figure as he did so. He drew near the 
place where he had seen it. But there was no sound of voices 
now to guide him. As he came within sight of the spot, ho 
saw the white figure in the arms of another, a man. Her head 
was lying on his shoulder. A moment after, she was lifted in 
those arms and borne towards the house, — down the Ghost’s 
Avenue. 

A burning agony to be satisfied of his doubts seized on Hugh. 
He fled like a deer to the house by another path ; tried, in his 
suspicion, the library window ; found it open, and was at Eu- 
phra’s door in a moment. Here he hesitated. She must be 
inside. How dare he knock or enter ? 

If she was there, she would be asleep. He would not wake 
her. There was no time to lose. He would risk anything to 
be rid of this horrible doubt. 

He gently opened the door. The night-light was burning. 
He thought, at first, that Euphra was in the bed. He felt like 
a thief, but he stole nearer. She was not there. She was not 
on the couch. She was not in the room Jane was fast asleep 
in the dressing-room. It was enough. 

He withdrew. He would watch at his door to see her 
return, for she must pass his door to reach her own. He 
waited a time that seemed hours. At length — horrible, far 
more horrible to him than the vision of the ghost — Euphra 
crept past him, appearing in the darkness to crawl along the 
wall against which she supported herself, and scarcely sup- 
pressing her groans of pain. She reached her own room, and, 
entering, closed the door. 

Hugh was nearly mad. He rushed down the stair to the 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


287 


library, and out into the wood. Why or whither he knew 
not. 

Suddenly he received a blow on the head. It did not stun 
him, but he staggered under it. Had he run against a tree ? 
No. There was the dim bulk of a man disappearing through 
the boles. He darted after him. The man heard his footsteps, 
stopped, and waited in silence. As Hugh came up to him, he 
made a thrust at him with some weapon. He missed his aim. 
The weapon passed through his coat and under his arm. The 
next moment, Hugh had wrenched the sword-stick from him, 
thrown it away, and grappled with — Funkelstein. But, 
strong as Hugh was, the Bohemian was as strong, and the 
contest was doubtful. Strange as it may seem, in the midst 
of it, while each held the other unable to move, the conviction 
flashed upon Hugh’s mind, that, whoever might have taken 
Lady Euphrasia’s ring, he was grappling with the thief of his 
father’s. 

“ Give me my ring,” gasped he. 

An imprecation of a sufficiently emphatic character was the 
only reply. The Bohemian got one hand loose, and Hugh 
heard a sound like the breaking of glass. Before he could 
gain any advantage — for his antagonist seemed for the moment 
to have concentrated all his force in the other hand — a wet 
handkerchief was held firmly to his face. His fierceness died 
away ; he was lapped in the vapor of dreams, and his senses 
departed. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


m 

CHAPTER XLIY. 

hush’s awaking. 

But ah ! believe me, there is more than so, 

That works such wonders in the minds of me® ; 

I, that have often proved, too well it know; 

And whoso list the like assays to ken, 

Shall find by trial, and confess it then, 

That beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, 

An outward shew of things that only seem! 

But ye, fair dames, the world’s dear ornaments, 

And lively images of heaven’s light. 

Let not your beams with such disparagements 
Be dimmed, and your bright glory darkened quite, 

But, mindful still of your first country’s sight, 

Do still preserve your first informed grace, 

Whose shadow yet shines in your beauteous face. 

Spenser. — Hymn in Honor of Beauty 

When Hugh came to himself, he was lying, in the first 
gray of the dawn, amidst the dews and vapors of the morning 
woods. He rose and looked around him. The Ghost’s Walk 
lay in long silence before him. Here and there a little bird 
moved and peeped. The glory of a new day was climbing up 
the eastern coast of heaven. It would be a day of late summer, 
crowned with flame, and throbbing with ripening life. But 
for him the spirit was gone out of the world, and it was nought 
but a mass of blind, heartless forces. 

Possibly, had he overheard the conversation, the motions 
only of which he had overseen the preceding night, he would, 
although equally perplexed, have thought more gently of Eu- 
phra ; but, in the mood into which even then he must have 
been thrown, his deeper feelings towards her could hardly have 
been different from what they were now. Although he had 
often felt that Euphra was not very good, not a suspicion had 
crossed his mind as to what he would have called the purity 
of her nature. Like many youths, even of character inferior 
to his own, he had the loftiest notions of feminine grace, and 
unspottedness in thought and feeling, not to say action and aim, 
"Now he found that he had loved a woman who would creep 
from her chamber, at the cost of great suffering, and almost at 
the risk of her life, to meet, in the night and the woods, a man 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


289 


no Letter than an assassin, — probably a thief. Had he been 
more versed in the ways of women, or in the probabilities of 
things, he would have judged that the very extravagance of the 
action demanded a deeper explanation that what seemed to lie 
on the surface. Yet, although he judged Euphra very hardly 
upon those grounds, would he have judged her differently had 
he actually known all? About this I am left to conjecture 
alone. 

But the effect on Hugh was different from what the ordinary 
reader of human nature might anticipate. Instead of being 
torn in pieces by storms of jealousy, all the summer growths 
of his love were chilled by an absolute frost of death. A kind 
of annihilation sank upon the image of Euphra. There had 
been no such Euphra. She had been but a creation of his own 
brain. It was not so much that he ceased to love, as that the 
being beloved — not died, but — ceased to exist. There were 
moments in which he seemed to love her still with a wild out- 
cry of passion ; but the frenzy soon vanished in the selfisu 
feeling of his own loss. His love was not a high one, — not 
such as thine, my Falconer. Thine was love indeed ; though 
its tale is too good to tell, simply because it is too good to be 
believed ; and we do men a wrong sometimes when we tell them 
more than they can receive. 

Thought, speculation, suggestion, crowded upon each other, 
till at length his mind sank passive, and served only as the 
lists in which the antagonist thoughts fought a confused battle 
without herald or umpire. 

But it is amazing to think how soon he began to look back 
upon his former fascination with a kind of wondering unbelief. 
This bespoke the strength of Hugh’s ideal sense, as well as the 
weakness of his actual love. He could hardly even recall the 
feelings with which, on some well-remembered occasion, he had 
regarded her, and which then it had seemed impossible he 
should ever forget. Had he discovered the cloven foot of a 
demon under those trailing garments, he could hardly have 
ceased to love her more suddenly or entirely. But there is an 
aching that is worse to bear than pain. 

I trust my reader will not judge very hardly of Hugh, be- 
cause of the change which had thus suddenly passed upon his 
feelings. He felt now just as he had felt on waking in the 
19 


290 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


morning and finding that he had been in love with a dream- 
lady all the night ; it had been very delightful, and it was sad 
that it was all gone, and could come hack no more. But the 
wonder to me is, not that some loves will not stand the test of 
absence, but that, their nature being what it is, they should 
outlast one week of familiar intercourse. 

He mourned bitterly over the loss of those feelings, for they 
had been precious to him. But could he help it ? Indeed he 
could not ; for his love had been fascination ; and the fascination 
having ceased, the love was gone. 

I believe some of my readers will not need this apology for 
Hugh ; but will rather admire the facility with which he rose 
above a misplaced passion, and dismissed its object. So do not 
I. It came of his having never loved. Had he really loved 
Euphra, herself, her own self, the living woman who looked at 
him out of those eyes, out of that face, such pity would have 
blended with the love as would have made it greater, and 
permitted no indignation to overwhelm it. As it was, he was 
utterly passive and helpless in the matter. The fault lay in 
the original weakness that submitted to be so fascinated ; that 
gave in to it, notwithstanding the vague expostulations of his 
better nature, and the consciousness that he was neglecting his 
duty to Harry, in order to please Euphra and enjoy her 
society. Had he persisted in doing his duty, it would at least 
have kept his mind more healthy, lessened the absorption of 
his passion, and given him opportunities of reflection, and 
moments of true perception as to what he was about. But now 
the spell was broken at once, and the poor girl had lost a 
worshipper. The golden image with the feet of clay might 
arise in a prophet’s dream, but it could never abide in such a 
lover’s. Her glance was powerless now. Alas, for the 
withering of such a dream ! Perhaps she deserved nothing 
else ; but our deserts, when we get them, are sad enough some- 
times. 

All that day he walked as in a dream of loss. As for the 
person whom he had used to call Euphra, she was removed to 
a vast distance from him. An absolutely impassable gulf lay 
between them. 

She sent for him. He went to her filled with a sense of in- 
sensibility. She was much worse, and suffering great pain. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


201 


Hugli 3aw at once that she knew that all was ovei between 
them, and that he had seen her pass his door, or had been in 
her room, for he had left her door a little open, and she had 
left it shut. One pathetic, most pitiful glance of deprecating 
entreaty she fixed upon him, as, after a few moments of speech- 
less waiting, he turned to leave the room, — which would have 
remained deathless in his heart, but that he interpreted it to 
mean, li Don’t tell; ” so he got rid of it at once by the grant 
of its supposed request. She made no effort to detain him. 
She turned her face away, and, hard-hearted, he heard her 
sob, notas if her heart would break, — that is little, — but like 
an immortal woman in immortal agony, and he did not turn to 
comfort her. Perhaps it was better, — how could he comfort 
her ? Some kinds of comfort — the only kinds which poor 
mortals sometimes have to give — are like the food on which 
the patient and the disease live together; and some griefs are 
soonest got rid of by letting them burn out. All the fire- 
engines in creation can only prolong the time, and increase the 
sense of burning. There is but one cure : the fellow-feeling 
of the human God, which converts the agony itself into the 
creative fire of a higher life. 

As for Von Funkelstein, Hugh comforted himself with the 
conviction that they were destined to meet again. 

The day went on, as days will go, unstayed, unhastened by 
the human souls, through which they glide silent and awful. 
After such lessons as he was able to get through with Harry, 

w ho, feeling that his tutor did not want him, left the room 

as soon as they were over, — he threw himself on the couch, 
and tried to think. But think he could not. Thoughts passed 
through him; but he did not think them. He was powerless 
in regard to them. They came and went of their own will : 
he could neither say come nor go. Tired at length of the 
couch, he got up and paced about the room for hours. When 
he came to himself a little, he found that the sun was nearly 
setting. Through the top of a beech- tree taller than the rest 
it sent a golden light, full of the floating shadows of leaves and 
branches, upon the wall of his room. But there was no 
beauty for him in the going down of the sun ; no glory in the 
golden light ; no message from dream-land in the flitting and 
blending °and parting, the constantly dissolving yet ever re- 


292 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


maining play of the lovely and wonderful shadow-leaves. Tha 
sun sank below the beech-top, and was hidden behind a cloud 
of green leaves, thick as the wood was deep. A gray light 
instead of a golden filled the room. The change had no inter- 
est for him. The pain of a lost passion tormented him, — the 
aching that came of the falling together of the ethereal walls 
of his soul about the space where there had been and where 
'here was no longer a urorld. 

A young bird flew against the window, and fluttered its 
wings two or three times, vainly seeking to overcome the un- 
seen obstacle which the glass presented to its flight. Hugh 
started and shuddered. Then first he knew, in the influence 
of the signs of the approaching darkness, how much his nerves 
had suffered from the change that had passed. He took refuge 
with Harry. His pupil was now to be his consoler ; who in 
his turn would fare henceforth the better, for the decay of 
Hugh’s pleasures. The poor boy was filled with delight at 
having his big brother all to himself again, and worked harder 
than ever to make the best of his privileges. For Hugh, it 
was wonderful how soon his peace of mind began to return 
after he gave himself to duty, and how soon the cloudj 
of disappointment descended below the far horizon, leaving the 
air clear above and around. Painful thoughts about Euphra 
would still present themselves ; but, instead of becoming more 
gentle and sorrowful as the days went on, they grew more and 
more severe and unjust and angry. He even entertained 
doubts whether she did not know all about the theft of both 
rings, for to her only had he discovered the secret place in the 
old desk. If she was capable of what he believed, why should 
she not be capable of anything else ? It seemed to him most 
simple and credible. An impure woman might just as well be 
a thief too. I am only describing Hugh’s feelings. 

But along with these feelings and thoughts, of mingled good 
and bad, came one feeling which he needed more than any, — 
repentance. Seated alone upon a fallen tree one day, the 
face of poor Harry came back to him, as he saw it first, poring 
over “ Polexander ” in the library; and, full of the joy of life 
himself, notwithstanding his past troubles, strong as a sunrise, 
and hopeful as a Prometheus, the quivering perplexity of that 
Bickly little face smote him with a pang. What might I not 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


293 


have done for the boy ? He, too, was in the hands of the en- 
chantress, and, instead of freeing him, I became her slave to 
enchain him further.” Yet, even in this, he did Euphra in- 
justice ; for he had come to the conclusion that she had laid 
her plans with the intention of keeping the boy a dwarf, by 
giving him only food for babes, and not good food either, with- 
holding from him every stimulus to mental digestion and con- 
sequent hunger ; and that she had objects of her own in doing 
so, — one, perhaps, to keep herself necessary to the boy as she 
was to the father, and so secure the future. But poor Eu- 
phra’ s own nature and true education had been sadly neglected. 
A fine knowledge of music and Italian, and the development 
of a sensuous sympathy with nature, could hardly be called 
education. It was not certainly such a development of her 
own nature as would enable her to sympathize with the neces- 
sities of a boy’s nature. Perhaps the worst that could justly 
be said of her behavior to Harry was, that, with a strong incli- 
nation to despotism, and some feeling of loneliness, she had ex- 
ercised the one upon him in order to alleviate the other in 
herself. Upon him, therefore, she expended a certain, or 
rather an uncertain, kind of affection, which, if it might have 
been more fittingly spent upon a lapdog, and was worth but 
little, might yet have become worth everything, had she been 
moderately good. 

Hugh aid not see Euphra again for more than a fortnight. 


CHAPTER XLY. 


CHANGES. 

Hey, and the rue grows bonny wi’ thyme! 

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime. 

Refrain of an old Scotch song, altered by BURlfS. 

He hath wronged me; indeed he hath; — at a word, he hath ; — believe me; 
Robert Shallow, Esquire, saith he is wronged. 

Merry Wives of Windsor. 


At length, one evening, entering the drawing-room before 
dinner, Hugh found Euphra there alone. He bowed with em- 


294 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


barrassment, and Tittered some commonplace congratulation on 
her recovery. She answered him gently and coldly. Her 
whole air and appearance were signs of acute suffering. She 
did not make the slightest approach to their former familiarity, 
but she spoke without any embarrassment, like one who had 
given herself up, and was, therefore, indifferent. Hugh could 
not help feeling as if she knew every thought that was. passing 
in his mind, and having withdrawn herself from him, was 
watching him with a cold, ghostly interest. She took his arm 
to go into the dining-room, and actually leaned upon it, as, 
indeed, she was compelled to do. Her uncle was delighted to 
see her once more. Mrs. Elton addressed her with kindness, 
and Lady Emily with sweet cordiality. She herself seemed to 
care for nobody and nothing. As soon as dinner was over, she 
sent for her maid, and withdrew to her own room. It was a 
great relief to Hugh to feel that he was no longer in danger 
of encountering her eyes. 

Gradually she recovered strength, though it was again some 
days before she appeared at the dinner-table. The distance 
between Hugh and her seemed to increase instead of diminish, 
till at length he scarcely dared to offer her the smallest civil- 
ity, lest she should despise him as a hypocrite.. The further 
she removed herself from him, the more he felt inclined to re- 
spect her. By common consent they avoided, as much as 
before, any behavior that might attract attention; though 
the effort was of a very different nature now. It was 
wretched enough, no doubt, for both of them . 

The time drew near for Lady Emily’s departure. 

“What are your plans for the winter, Mrs. Elton?” said 
Mr. Arnold, one day. 

“ I intend spending the winter in London,” she answered. 

1 1 Then you are not going with Lady Emily to Madeira ? ’ ’ 

“No. Her father and one of her sisters are going with 
her.” 

“I have a great mind to spend the winter abroad myself; 
but the difficulty is what to do with Harry.” 

“ Could you not leave him with Mr. Sutherland? ” 

“No. I do not choose to do that.” 

“ Then let him come to me. I shall have all my little es« 
tablishment up, and there will be plenty of room for Harry.” 


DAVID ELGIttBROD. 


235 


“ A very kind offer. I may possibly avail myself of it.” 

“I fear we could hardly accommodate his tutor though. 
But that will be very easily arranged. He could sleep out of 
the house, could he not ? ” 

‘ 1 Give yourself no trouble about that. I wish Harry to 
have masters for the various branches he will study. It will 
teach him more of men and the world generally, and prevent 
his being too much influenced by one style of thinking.” 

“ But Mr. Sutherland is a very good tutor.” 

“Yes. Very.” 

To this there could be no reply but a question ; and Mr, 
Arnold’s manner not inviting one, the conversation was 
dropped. 

Euphra gradually resumed her duties in the house, as far 
as great lameness would permit. She continued to show a 
quiet and dignified reserve towards Hugh. She made no at- 
tempts to fascinate him, and never avoided his look when it 
chanced to meet hers. But although there was no reproach 
any more than fascination in her eyes, Hugh’s always fell be- 
fore hers. She walked softly like Ahab, as if, now that Hugh 
knew, she, too, was ever conscious. 

Her behavior to Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily was likewise 
improved, but apparently only from an increase of indifference. 
When the time came, and they departed, she did not even ap- 
pear to be much relieved. 

Once she asked Hugh to help her with a passage of Dante, 
but betrayed no memory of the past. His pleased haste to as- 
sist her showed that he at least, if fancy-free, was not memory- 
clear. She thanked him very gently and truly, took up her 
book like a school-girl, and limped away. Hugh was smitten 
to the heart. “ If I could but do something for her!” 
thought he ; but there was nothing to be done.. Although she 
had deserved it, somehow her behavior made him feel as if he 
had wronged her in ceasing to love her. 

One day, in the end of September, Mr. Arnold and Hugh 
were alone after breakfast. Mr. Arnold spoke : — 

“ Mr. Sutherland, I have altered my plans with regard to 
llarry. I wish him to spend the winter in London.” 

Hugh listened and waited. Mr. Arnold went on, after a 
slight pause : — 


296 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ There I wish him to reap such advantages as are to he 
gained in the metropolis. He has improved wonderfully under 
your instruction ; and is now, I think, to be benefited princi- 
pally by a variety of teachers. I therefore intend that he 
shall have masters for the different branches which it is desir- 
able he should study. Consequently I shall be compelled to 
deny him your services, valuable as they have hitherto been.” 

“ Very well, Mr. Arnold,” said Mr. Sutherland, with the 
indifference of one who feels himself ill-used. “ When shall I 
take my leave of him ? ” 

“ Not before the middle of the next month, at the earliest. 
But I will write you a cheque for your salary at once.” 

So saying, Mr. Arnold left the room for a moment, and re- 
turning, handed Hugh a cheque for a year’s salary. Hugh 
glanced at it, and offering it again to Mr. Arnold, said : — 

“No, Mr. Arnold; I can claim scarcely more than half a 
year’s salary.” 

“ Mr. Sutherland, your engagement was at so much a year; 
and if I prevent you from fulfilling your part of it, I am bound 
to fulfil mine. Indeed, you might claim further provision.” 

“ You are very kind, Mr. Arnold.” 

“Only just,” rejoined Mr. Arnold, with conscious dignity. 
“Iam under great obligation to you for the way in which you 
have devoted yourself to Harry.” 

Hugh’s conscience gave him a pang. Is anything more 
painful than undeserved praise ? 

“ I have hardly done my duty by him,” said he. 

“ I can only say that the boy is wonderfully altered for the 
better, and I thank you. I am obliged to you ; oblige me by 
putting the cheque in your pocket.” 

Hugh persisted no longer in his refusal ; and indeed it had 
been far more a feeling of pride than of justice that made him 
decline accepting it at first. Nor was there any generosity in 
Mr. Arnold’s cheque ; for Hugh, as he admitted, might have 
claimed board and lodging as well. But Mr. Arnold was one 
of the ordinarily honorable, who, with perfect characters for up- 
rightness, always contrive to err on the safe side of the purse, 
and the doubtful side of a severely interpreted obligation. 
Such people, in so doing, not unfrequently secure for them- 
selves, at the same time, the reputation of generosity. 


DAVID ELGINBROD 


297 


Hugh could not doubt that his dismissal was somehow or 
other connected with the loss of the ring; but he would not 
stoop to inquire into the matter. He hoped that time would 
set all right ; and, in fact, felt considerable indifference to the 
opinion of Mr. Arnold, or of any one in the house, except 
Harry. 

The boy burst into tears when informed of his father’s decis- 
ion with regard to his winter studies, and could only be con- 
soled by the hope which Hugh held out to him, — certainly 
upon a very slight foundation, — that they might meet some- 
times in London. For the little time that remained, Hugh 
devoted himself unceasingly to his pupil ; not merely studying 
with him, but walking, riding, reading stories, and going 
through all sorts of exercises for the strengthening of his per- 
son and constitution. The best results followed both for 
Harry and his tutor. 


CHAPTER XLYL 

EXPLANATIONS. 


I have done nothing good to win belief, 

My life hath been so faithless; all the creatures 

Made for heaven’s honors, have their ends, and good ones; 

All but .... false women .... When they die, like tales 
Ill-told, and unbelieved, they pass away. 


I will redeem one minute of my age, 

Or, like another Niobe, I’ll weep 
Till I am water. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. — The Maid’s Tragedy . 


The days passed quickly by; and the last evening that 
Hugh was to spend at Arnstead arrived. He wandered out 
alone. He had been with Harry all day, and now he wished 
for a few moments of solitude. It was a lovely autumn even- 
ing. He went into the woods behind the house. The leaves 
were still thick upon the trees, but most of them had changed 
to gold, and brown, and red ; and the sweet faint odors of 
those that had fallen, and lay thick underfoot, ascended like a 


298 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


voice from the giave, saying, “Here dwelleth some sad- 
ness, but no despair.” As he strolled about among them, the 
whole history of his past life arose before him. This often 
happens before any change in our history, and is surest to take 
place at the approach of the greatest change of all, when we 
are about to pass into the unknown, whence we came. 

In this mood, it was natural that his sins should rise before 
him. They came as the shadows of his best pleasures. Eoi 
now, in looking back, he could fix on no period of his history, 
around which the aureole, which glorifies the sacred things of 
the past, had gathered in so golden a hue, as around the 
memory of the holy cottage, the temple in which abode David, 
and Janet, and Margaret. All the story glided past, as the 
necromantic Will called up the sleeping dead in the mausoleum 
of the brain. And that solemn, kingly, gracious old man, 
who had been to him a father, he had forgotten ; the homely 
tenderness which, from fear of its own force, concealed itself 
behind a humorous roughness of manner, he had — no, not 
despised, but — forgotten, too ; and if the dim pearly loveli- 
ness of the trustful, grateful maiden had not been quite for- 
gotten, yet she, too, had been neglected, had died, as it were, 
and been buried in the church-yard of the past, where the 
grass grows long over the graves, and the moss soon begins to 
fill up the chiselled records. He was ungrateful. He dared not 
allow to himself that he was unloving ; but he must confess 
himself ungrateful. 

Musing sorrowfully and self-reproachfully, he came to the 
Ghost’s Avenue. Up and down its aisle he walked, a fit place 
for remembering the past and the sins of the present. Yield- 
ing himself to what thoughts might arise, the strange sight he 
had seen here on that moonlit night, of two silent wandering 
figures, — or could it be that they were one and the same, 
suddenly changed in hue ? — returned upon him. This vision 
had been so speedily followed by the second and more alarming 
apparition of Lady Euphrasia, that he had hardly had time to 
speculate on what the former could have been. He was medi- 
tating upon all these strange events, and remarking to himself 
that, since his midnight encounter with Lady Euphrasia, the 
house had been as quiet as a church-yard at noon, when all 
suddenly, he saw before him, at some little distance, a dark 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


299 


figure approaching him. His heart seemed to bound into his 
throat and choke him, as he said to himself, “ It is the nun 
again ! ” But the next moment he saw that it was Euphra. 
I do not know which he would have preferred not meeting 
alone, and in the deepening twilight ; Euphra, too, had become 
like a ghost to him. His first impulse was to turn aside into 
the wood, but she had seen him, and was evidently going to 
address him. He therefore advanced to meet her. She spoke 
first, approaching him with painful steps. 

“ I have been looking for you, Mr. Sutherland. I wanted 
very much to have a little conversation with you before you 
go. Will you allow me?” 

Hugh felt like a culprit directly. Euphra’ s manner was 
quite collected and kind; yet through it all a consciousness 
showed itself that the relation which had once existed between 
them had passed away forever. In her voice there was some- 
thing like the tone of wind blowing through a ruin. 

“ I shall be most happy,” said he. 

She smiled sadly. A great change had passed upon her. 

“Iam going to be quite open with you,” she said. “I 
am perfectly aware, as well as you are, that the boyish fancy 
you had for me is gone. Do not be offended. You are manly 
enough, but your love for me was boyish. Most first loves 
are childish, quite irrespective of age. I do not blame you in 
the least.” 

This seemed to Hugh rather a strange style to assume, if all 
was true that his own eyes had reported. She went on : — 

“Nor must you think it has cost me much to lose it.” 

Hugh felt hurt, at which no one who understands will be 
surprised. 

“ But I cannot afford to lose you , the only friend I have,” 
she added. 

Hugh turned towards her with a face full of manhood and 
truth. 

“ You shall not lose me, Euphra, if you will be honest to 
yourself and to me.” 

“ Thank you. I can trust you. I will be honest.” 

At that moment, without the revival of a trace of his for- 
mer feelings, Hugh felt nearer to her than he had ever felt 


800 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


before. Now there seemed to be truth between them, the only 
medium through which beings can unite. 

“ I fear I have wronged you much,” she went on. “I do 
not mean some time ago.” Here she hesitated. “I fear I 
am the cause of your leaving Arnstead.” 

“ You, Euphra? No. You must be mistaken.” 

“ I think not. But I am compelled to make an unwiBing 
disclosure of a secret, — a sad secret about myself. Do not 
hate me quite — I am a somnambulist.” 

She hid her face in her hands, as if the night which had 
now closed around them did not hide her enough. Hugh did 
not reply. Absorbed in the interest which both herself and 
her confession aroused in him, he could only listen eagerly. 
She went on, after a moment’s pause : — 

“ I did not think at first that I had taken the ring. I 
thought another had. But last night, and not till then, I dis- 
covered that I was the culprit.” 

“How?” 

“ That requires explanation. I have no recollection of the 
events of the previous night when I have been walking in my 
sleep. Indeed, the utter absence of a sense of dreaming always 
makes me suspect that I have been wandering. But sometimes 
I have a vivid dream, which I know, though I can give no 
proof of it, to be a reproduction of some previous somnambulic 
experience. Do not ask me to recall the horrors I dreamed 
last night. I am sure I took the ring.” 

“ Then you dreamed what you did with it? ” 

“ Yes, I gave it to — ” 

Here her voice sank and ceased. Hugh would not urge 
her. 

“ Have you mentioned this to Mr. Arnold ? ” 

“No. I do not think it would do any good. But I will, 
if you wish it,” she added, submissively. 

“ Not at all. Just as you think best.” 

“ I could not tell him everything. I cannot tell you every- 
thing. If I did, Mr. Arnold would turn me out of the house. 
I am a very unhappy girl, Mr. Sutherland.” 

From the tone of these words, Hugh could not for a moment 
suppose that Euphra had any remaining design of fascination 
ir them. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


801 


“ Perhaps he might want to keep you, if I told him all ; but 
I do not think, after the way he has behaved to you, that you 
could stay with him. for he would never apologize. It is very sel- 
fish of me ; but indeed I have not the courage to confess to him.” 

“I assure you nothing could make me remain now. But 
what can I do for you ? ” 

“ Only let me depend upon you, in case I should need your 
help; or — ” 

Here Euphra stopped suddenly, and caught hold of Hugh’s 
left hand, which he had lifted to brush an insect from his face. 

“ Where is your ring? ” she said, in a tone of suppressed 
anxiety. 

“Gone, Euphra. My father’s ring! It was lying beside 
Lady Euphrasia’ s.” 

Euphra’s face was again hidden in her hands. She sobbed 
and moaned like one in despair. When she grew a little calmer, 
she said : — 

“lam sure I did not take your ring, dear Hugh, — lam not 
a thief. I had a kind of right to the other, and he said it 
ought to have been his, for his real name was Count von Hal- 
kar, — the same name as Lady Euphrasia’ s before she was 
married. He took it, I am sure.” 

“ It was he that knocked me down in the dark that night, 
then, Euphra.” 

“ Did he ? Oh ! I shall have to tell you all. That wretch 
has a terrible power over me. I loved him once. But I re- 
fused to take the ring from your desk, because I knew it would 
get you into trouble. He threw me into a somnambulic sleep, 
and sent me for the ring. But I should have remembered if 
I had taken yours. Even in my sleep, I don’t think he could 
have made me do that. You may know I speak the truth, 
when I am telling my own disgrace. He promised to set me 
free if I would get the ring ; but he has not done it, aad he 
will not.” 

Sobs again interrupted her. 

“ I was afraid your ring was gone. I don’t know why l 
thought so, except that you hadn’t it on when you came to see 
me. Or perhaps it was because I am sometimes forced to 
think what that wretch is thinking. He made me go to him 
that night you saw me, Hugh. But I was so ill, I don’t tbmk 


802 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


I should have been able, but that I could not rest till I had 
asked him about jour ring. He said he knew nothing about 
ft.” 

“lam sure he has it,” said Hugh. And he related to 
Euphra the struggle he had had with Funkelstein and its re- 
sult. She shuddered. 

“ I have been a devil to you, Hugh ; I have betrayed you 
to him. You will never see your ring again. Here, take 
mine. It is not so good as yours, but for the sake of the old 
way you thought of me, take it.” 

“No, no, Euphra; Mr. Arnold would miss it. Besides, 
you know it would not be my father’s ring, and it was not for 
the value of the diamond I cared most about it. And I am 
not sure that I shall not find it again. I am going up to Lon- 
don, where I shall fall in with him, I hope.” 

“ But do take care of yourself. He has no conscience. God 
knows I have had little, but he has none.” 

“ I know he has none ; but a conscience is not a bad auxil- 
iary, and there I shall have some advantage of him. But what 
could he want that ring of Lady Euphrasia’s for ? ” 

“ I don’t know. He never told me.” 

“ It was not worth much.” 

“ Next to nothing.” 

“ I shall be surer to find that than my own. And I will 
find it, if I can, that Mr. Arnold may believe I was not to 
blame.” 

“ Do. But be careful.” 

“ Don’t fear. I will be careful.” 

She held out her hand, as if to take leave of him, but with-* 
drew it again with the sudden cry : — 

“ What shall I do ? I thought he had left me to myself, 
till that night in the library.” 

She held down her head in silence. Then she said, slowly, 
in a tone of agony : — 

“lama slave, body and soul. Hugh ! ” she added, pas- 
sionately, and looking up in his face, “do you think there is 
a God?” 

Her eyes glimmered with the faint reflex from gathered 
tears that silently overflowed. 

And now Hugh’s own poverty struck him with grief and 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


803 


humiliation. Here was a soul seeking God, and he had no 
right to say that there was a God, for he knew nothing about 
him. He had been told so; but what could that far-off wit- 
ness do for the need of a desolate heart ? She had been told 
so a million of times. He could not say that he knew it. That 
was what she wanted and needed. 

He was honest, and so replied : — 

“ I do not know. I hope so.” 

He felt that she was already beyond him ; for she had begun 
to cry into the vague, seemingly heartless void, and say : — 

“ Is there a God somewhere to hear me when I cry ? ” 

And with all the teaching he had had, he had no word of 
comfort to give. Yes, he had ; he had known David El- 
ginbrod. 

Before he had shaped his thought, she said : — 

“ I think, if there were a God, he would help me ; for I am 
nothing but a poor slave now. I have hardly a will of my own.” 

The sigh she heaved told of a hopeless oppression. 

“ The best man, and the wisest, and the noblest I ever 
knew,” said Hugh, “ believed in God with his whole heart 
and soul and strength and mind. In fact, he cared for noth- 
ing but God ; or rather, he cared for everything, because it be- 
longed to God. He was never afraid of anything, never vexed 
at anything, never troubled about anything. He teas a good 
man.” 

Hugh was surprised at the light which broke upon the char- 
acter of David, as he held it before his mind’s eye, in order to 
describe it to Euphra. He seemed never to have understood 
him before. 

“ Ah ! I wish I knew him. I would go to that man, and 
ask him to save me. Where does he live? ” 

“ Alas ! I do not know whether he is alive or dead, — the 
more to my shame. But he lives, if he lives, far away in the 
north of Scotland.” 

She paused. 

u No. I could not go there. I will write to him.” 

Hugh could not discourage her, though he doubted whether 
a real communication could be established between them. 

11 1 will write down his address for you, when I go in,” said 
he. “ But what can he save you from ? ” 


804 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


11 From no God,” she answered, solemnly. u If there is no 
God, then I am sure that there is a devil, and that he has got 
me in his power.” 

Hugh felt her shudder, for she was leaning on his arm, she 
was still so lame. She continued : — 

“ Oh ! if I had a God, he would right me, I know.” 

Hugh could not reply. A pause followed. 

“ Good-by. I feel pretty sure we shall meet again. My 
presentiments are generally true,” said Euphra, at length. 

Hugh kissed her hand with far more real devotion than he 
had ever kissed it with before. 

She left him, and hastened to the house “ with feeble speed.” 
He was sorry she was gone. He walked up and down for 
some time, meditating on the strange girl and her strange 
words ; till, hearing the dinner-bell, he, too, must hasten in to 
dress. 

Euphra met him at the dinner-table without any change of 
her late manner. Mr. Arnold wished him good-night more 
kindly than usual. When he went up to his room, he found 
that Harry had already cried himself to sleep. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

DEPARTURE. 


I fancy deemed fit guide to lead my way, 

And as I deemed I did pursue her track ; 

Wit lost his aim, and will was fancy’s prey; 

The rebel won, the ruler went to wrack. 

But now sith fancy did with folly end, 

Wit, bought with loss — will, taught by wit, will mend. 

Southwell. — David's Peccavi. 


After dinner, Hugh wandered over the well-known places, 
to bid them good-by. Then he went up to his room, and, with 
the vanity of a young author, took his poems out of the fatal 
old desk ; wrote, “Take them, please, such as they are. Let 
me be your friend;” enclosed them with the writing, and 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


305 


addressed them to Euphra. By the time he saw them again, 
they were so much waste-paper in his eyes. 

But what were his plans for the future ? 

Fiist of all he would go to London. There he would do 
many things. He would try to find Funkelstein. He would 
write. He would make acquaintance with London life ; for had 
he not plenty of money in his pocket ? And who could live 
more thriftily than he ? During his last session at Aberdeen 
he had given some private lessons, and so contrived to eke out 
his small means. These were wretchedly paid for, namely, 
not quite at the rate of sevenpence-halfpenny a lesson \ but still 
that was something, where more could not be had. Now he 
would try to do the same in London, where he would be much 
better paid. Or perhaps he might get a situation in a school 
for a short time, if he were driven to ultimate necessity. At 
all events, he would see London, and look about him for a 
little while, before he settled to anything definite. 

With this hopeful prospect before him, he next morning bade 
adieu to Arnstead. I will not describe the parting with poor 
Harry. The boy seemed ready to break his heart, and Hugh 
himself had enough ado to refrain from tears. One of the 
grooms drove him to the railway in the dog-cart. As they 
came near the station, Hugh gave him half a crown. Enlivened 
by the gift, the man began to talk. 

“ He’s a rum customer, that ’ere gemman with the foring 
name. The color of his puss I couldn’t swear to now. Never 
saw sixpence o’ his’n. My opinion is, master had better look 
arter his spoons. And for missus — well, it’s a pity ! He’s 
a rum un, as I say, anyhow.” _ . 

The man here nodded several times, half compassionately, 

half importantly. rnk 

Hugh did not choose to inquire what he meant. I hey 
reached the station, and in a few minutes he was shooting 
along towards London, that social vortex, which draws every- 
thing towards its central tumult. 

But there is a central repose beyond the motions ot the 
worlds- and through the turmoil of London, Hugh was 
journeying towards that wide stillness, — that silence of the 
soul which is not desolate, but rich with unutterable harmonies. 

’ 20 


806 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER XLYIII. 

LODGINGS. 


Heigh ho S sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 

Song in As You Luce It . 


Hugh felt rather dreary as, through Bermondsey, he drew 
nigh to the London Bridge Station. Fog, and drizzle, and 
smoke, and stench composed the atmosphere. He got out in a 
drift of human atoms. Leaving his luggage at the office, he 
set out on foot to explore, — in fact, to go and look for his 
future, which, even when he met it, he would not be able to 
recognize with any certainty. The first form in which he was 
interested to find it embodied was that of lodgings ; but where 
even to look, he did not know. He had been in London for a 
few days in the spring, on his way to Arnstead, so he was not 
utterly ignorant of the anatomy of the monster city : but his 
little knowledge could not be of much service to him now. 
And how different it was from the London of spring, which had 
lingered in hi3 memory and imagination; when, transformed 
by the “ heavenly alchemy” of the piercing sunbeams that 
slanted across the streets from chimney-tops to opposite base- 
ments, the dust and smoke showed great inclined planes of 
light, up whose steep slopes one longed to climb to the fountain 
glory whence they flowed ! Now the streets, from garret to 
cellar, seemed like huge kennels of muddy, moist, filthy air, 
down through which settled the heavier particles of smoke and 
rain upon the miserable human beings who crawled below in 
the deposit, like shrimps in the tide, or whitebait at the bottom 
of the muddy Thames. He had to wade through deep thin mud 
even on the pavements. Everybody looked depressed, and 
hurried by with a cowed look ; as if conscious that the rain and 
general misery were a plague drawn down on the city by his 
own individual crime. Nobody seemed to care for anybody or 
anything. “ Good heavens ! ” thought Hugh ; “ what a place 
this must be for one without money ! ” It looked like a chaos 


DAVID E1GINBR0D. 


807 


of human monads And yet, in reality, the whole mass was 
so bo md together, interwoven, and matted, by the crossing and 
intertwisting threads of interest, mutual help, and relationship 
of every kind, that Hugh soon found how hard it was to get 
within the mass at all, so as to be in any degree partaker of 
the benefits it shared within itself. 

He did not wish to get lodgings in the outskirts, for he 
thought that would remove him from every centre of action or 
employment. But he saw no lodgings anywhere. Growing 
tired and hungry, he went at length into an eating-house, 
which he thought looked cheap ; and proceeded to dine upon a 
cinder, which had been a steak. He tried to delude himself 
into the idea that it was a steak still, by withdrawing his 
attention from it, and fixing it upon a newspaper two days old 
Finding nothing of interest, he dallied with the advertisements 
He soon came upon a column from which single gentlemen 
appeared to be in request as lodgers. Looking over these ad- 
vertisements, which had more interest for him at the moment 
than all home and foreign news, battles and murders included, 
he drew a map from his pocket, and began to try to find out 
some of the localities indicated. Most of them were in or 
towards the suburbs. At last he spied one in a certain square, 
which, after long and diligent search, and with the assistance 
of the girl who waited on him, he found on his map. It was 
in the neighborhood of Holborn, and, from the place it occupied 
in the map, seemed central enough for his vague purposes. 
Above all, the terms were said to be moderate. But no de- 
scription of the character of the lodgings was given, else Hugh 
would not have ventured to look at them. What he wanted 
was something of the same sort as he had had in Aberdeen, — 
a single room, or a room and bedroom, for which he should 
have to pay only a few shillings a week. 

Refreshed by his dinner, wretched as it was, he set out 
a^ain. To his great joy, the rain was over, and an afternoon 
sun was trying, with some slight measure of success, to pierce 
the clouds of the London atmosphere ; it had already succeeded 
with the clouds of the terrene. He soon found his way into 
Holborn, and thence into the square in question. It looked to 
him very attractive ; for it was quietness itself, and had no 
thoroughfare except across one of its corners. True, it was 


808 


DAVID ELGIN1JROD. 


invaded by the universal roar, — for what place in London ia 
not ? — but it contributed little or nothing of its own manu- 
facture to the general production of sound in the metropolis. 
The centre was occupied by grass and trees, enclosed within an 
iron railing. All the leaves were withered, and many had 
dropped already on the pavement below. In the middle stood 
the statue of a queen, of days gone by. The tide of fashion 
had rolled away far to the west, and yielded a free passage to 
the inroads of commerce, and of the general struggle for igno- 
ble existence, upon this once favored island in its fluctuating 
waters. Old windows, flush with the external walls, whence 
had glanced fair eyes to which fashion was even dearer than 
beauty, now displayed 1 ‘Lodgings to Let” between knitted 
curtains, from which all idea of drapery had been expelled by 
severe starching. Amongst these he soon found the house he 
sought, and shrunk from its important size and bright equip- 
ments : but, summoning courage, thought it better to ring the 
bell. A withered old lady, in just the same stage of decay as 
the square, and adorned after the same fashion as the house, 
came to the door, cast a doubtful look at Hugh, and, when he 
had stated his object, asked him, in a hard, keen, unmodulated 
voice, to walk in. He followed her, and found himself in a 
dining-room, which to him, judging by his purse, and not by 
what he had been used to of late, seemed sumptuous. He said 
at once : — 

“ It is needless for me to trouble you further. I see your 
rooms will not suit me.” 

The old lady looked annoyed. 

“ Will you see the drawing-room apartments then ? ” she 
said, crustily. 

“ No, thank you. It would be giving you quite unnecessary 
trouble.” 

“ My apartments have always given satisfaction, I assure 
you, sir.” 

11 Indeed, I have no reason to doubt it. I wish I could 
afford to take them,” said Hugh, thinking it better to be open 
than to hurt her feelings. “Iam sure I should be very com- 
fortable. But a poor — ” 

He did not know what to call himself. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


30S 


“ O-oh!” said the landlady. Then, after a pause, “Well?” 
interrogatively. 

“ Well, I was a tutor last, but I don’t know what I may be 
next.” 

She kept looking at him. Once or twice she looked at him 
from head to foot. 

“ You are respectable ? ” 

“ I hope so,” said Hugh, laughing. 

“ Well ! ” — this time not interrogatively. 

“ How many rooms would you like? ” 

“ The fewer the better. Half a one, if there were nobody 
in the other half.” 

“ Well ! — And you wouldn’t give much trouble, I dare 
say.” 

“ Only for coals, and water to wash and drink.” 

“ And you wouldn’t dine at home ? ” 

“No — nor anywhere else,” said Hugh; but the second 
and larger clause was sotto voce . 

“ And you wouldn’t smoke in-doors? ” 

“ No.” 

“ And you would wipe your boots clean before you went up- 
stairs? ” 

“Yes, certainly.” Hugh was beginning to be exceedingly 
amused, but he kept his gravity wonderfully. 

“ Have you any money ? ” 

“Yes; plenty for the mean time. But when I shall get 
more, I don’t know, you see.” 

“ Well, I’ve a room at the top of the house, which I’ll make 
comfortable for you ; and you may stay as long as you like to 
behave yourself.” 

“ But what is the rent? ” 

“ Four shillings a week — to you. Would you like to 
gee it ? ” 

“ Yes, if you please.” 

She conducted him up to the third floor, and showed him a 
good-sized room, rather bare, but clean. 

“ This will do delightfully,” said Hugh. 

“ I will make it a little more comfortable for you, you 
know.” 


810 


DAVID ELGINBRCD. 


“ Thank you very much. Shall I pay a month in ad* 
Vance? ” 

“No, no,'* she answered, with a grim smile. “ I might 
want to get lid of you, you know. It must be a week’s warn- 
ing, no more.” 

“ Very well. I have no objection. I will go and fetch my 
luggage. I suppose I may come in at once ? ” 

“ The sooner the better, young man, in a place like London. 
The sooner vou come home the better pleased I shall be. There 
now!” 

So saying, she walked solemnly downstairs before him, and 
let him out. Hugh hurried away to fetch his luggage, de- 
lighted that he had so soon succeeded in finding just what he 
wanted. As he went, he speculated on the nature of his land- 
lady, trying to account for her odd, rough manner, and the real 
kindness of her rude words. He came to the conclusion that 
she was naturally kind to profusion, and that this kindness 
had, some time or other, perhaps repeatedly, been taken shame- 
ful advantage of ; that at last she had come to the resolution 
to defend herself by means of a general misanthropy, and sup- 
posed that she had succeeded, when she had got no further 
than to have so often imitated the tone of her own behavior 
when at its crossest as to have made it habitual by repeti- 
tion. 

In all probability some unknown sympathy had drawn her 
to Hugh. She might have had a son about his age, who had 
run away thirty years ago. Or rather, for she seemed an 
old maid, she had been jilted some time by a youth about the 
same size as Hugh ; and therefore she loved him the moment 
she saw him. Or, in short, a thousand things. Certainly 
seldom had lodgings been let so oddly or so cheaply. But 
some impulse or other of the whimsical old human heart, which 
will have its way, was satisfied therein. 

When he returned in a couple of hours, with his boxes on 
the top of a cab, the door was opened, before he knocked, by a 
tidy maid, who, without being the least like her mistress, yet 
resembled her excessively. She helped him to carry his boxes 
upstairs ; and when he reached his room, he found a fire burn- 
ing cheerily, a muffin down before it, a teakettle singing on 
the hob, and the tea-tray set upon a nice white cloth on a table 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


sn 


right in front of the fire, with an old-fashioned high-backed 
eas y-chair by its side, — the very chair to go to sleep in over a 
novel. The old lady soon made her appearance, with the tea- 
pot in one hand, and a plate of butter in the other. 

“ Oh ! thank you,” said Hugh. “ This is comfortable ! ” 
She answered only by compressing her lips till her mouth 
vanished altogether, and nodding her head as much as to say, 
“I know it is. I intended it should be.” She then poured 
water into the teapot, set it down by the fire, and vanished. 

Hugh sat down in the easy-chair, and resolved to be com- 
fortable, at least till he had had his tea ; after which he would 
think what he was to do next. A knock at the door — and 
his landlady entered, laid a penny newspaper on the table, and 
went away. This was just what he wanted to complete his com- 
fort. He took it up, and read while he consumed his bread 
and butter. When he had had enough of tea and newspaper, 
he said to himself : — 

“ Now, what am I to do next? ” 

It is a happy thing for us that this is really all we have to 
concern ourselves about, — what to do next. No man can do 
the second thing. He can do the first. If he omits it, the 
wheels of the social Juggernaut roll over him, and leave him 
more or less crushed behind. If he does it, he keeps in front, 
and finds room to do the next again ; and so he is sure to arrive 
at something, for the onward march will carry him with it. There 
is no saying to what perfection of success a man may come, 
who begins with what he can do, and uses the means at his 
hand. He makes a vortex of action, however slight, towards 
which all the means instantly begin to gravitate. Let a man but 
lay hold of something, — anything, — and he is in the high road 
to success, though it maybe very long before he can walk com- 
fortably in it. It is true the success may be measured out 
according to a standard very different from his. 

But in Hugh’s case, the difficulty was to grasp anything, — 
to make a beginning anywhere. He knew nobody ; and the 
globe of society seemed like a mass of adamant, on which he 
could not gain the slightest hold, or make the slightest im^ 
pression. Who would introduce him to pupils ? Nobqdy. He 
had the testimonials of his professors ; but who would ask to 
see them ? His eye fell on the paper. He would advertise. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


* 4 2 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


LETTERS FOR THE POST. 

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake, 

Which way soe’er I look, I see. 

Some may dream merrily, but when they wake, 

They dress themselves, and come to thee. 

George Herbert. — Home. 


He got his writing materials, and wrote to the effect, that a 
graduate of a Scotch university was prepared to give private 
lessons in the classics and mathematics, or even in any of the 
inferior branches of education, etc., etc. This he would take 
to the “ Times,” next day. 

As soon as he had done this, Duty lifted up her head, and 
called him. He obeyed, and wrote to his mother. Duty 
called again ; and he wrote, with much trepidation and humilia- 
tion, to David Elginbrod. 

It was a good beginning. He had commenced his London 
life in doing what he knew he ought to do. His trepidation 
in writing to David arose in part, it must be confessed, from 
the strange result of one of the experiments at Arnstead. 

This was his letter ; but he sat and meditated a long time 
before he began it : — 

“ My dear Friend : — If I did not think you would forgive me, I 
should feel, now that I have once allowed my mind to rest upon my con- 
duct to you, as if I could never hold up my head again. After much 
occupation of thought and feeling with other things, a season of 
silence has come, and my sins look me in the face. First of them all is 
my neglect of you, to whom I owe more than to any man else, except, 
perhaps, my father. Forgive me, for forgiveness’ sake. You know it takes 
a long time for a child to know its mother. It takes everything as a 
matter of course, till suddenly one day it lifts up its eyes, and knows 
that a face is looking at it. I have been like the child towards you; 
but I am beginning to feel what you have been to me. I want to be 
good. 1 am very lonely now in great, noisy London. Write to me, 
if you please, and comfort me. I wish I were as good as j'ou. Then 
everything would go right with me. Do not suppose that I am in great 
trouble of any kind. As yet I am very comfortable, as far as external 
circumstances go. But I have a kind of aching inside me. Something 
is not right, aud I want your help. You will know what I mean. 
What am I to do? Please to remember me in the kin lest, most grate- 
ful manner to Mrs. Elgipbrod and Margaret. It is more than I de 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


813 


lerve , but I hope they have not forgotten me as I have seemed to for- 
get them. 

“ I am, my dear Mr. Elginbrod, 

“Your old friend, 

“ Hugh Sutherland.** 


I may as well insert here another letter, which arrived at 
Turriepuffit, likewise addressed to David, some six weeks after 
the foregoing. They were both taken to J anet, of course : — 

“ Sir : — I have heard from one who knows you, that you believe, 
really believe, in God. That is why I write to you. It may seem very 
strange in me to do so, but how can I help it ? I am a very unhappy 
woman, for I am in the power of a bad man. I cannot explain it all to 
you, and I will not attempt it; for sometimes I almost think I am out 
of my mind, and that it is all a delusion. But, alas ! delusion or not, 
it is a dreadful reality to me in all its consequences. It is of such a 
nature that no one can help me — but God, if there be a God; and if 
you can make me believe that there is a God, I shall not need to be 
persuaded that he will help me ; for I will besiege him with prayers 
night and day to set me free. And even if I am out of my mind, who 
can help me but him? Ah! is it not when we are driven to despair, 
When there is no more help anywhere, that we look around for some 
power of good that can put right all that is wrong? Tell me, dear sir, 
what to do. Tell me that there certainly is a God ; else I shall die 
raving. He said you knew about him better than anybody else. 

“ I am, honored sir, 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“ Euphrasia Cameron. 

“ Arnstead, Surrey, etc., etc.” 


David’s answer to this letter would have been something 
worth having. But I think it would have been all summed 
up in one word : Try and see ; call and listen. 

But what could Janet do with such letters? She did the 
only thing she could, — she sent them to Margaret. 

Hugh found it no great hardship to go to bed in the same 
room in which he sat. The bed looked peculiarly inviting ; 
for, strange to tell, it was actually hung with the same pattern 
of old-fashioned chintz as the bed which had been his from 
his earliest recollection, till he left his father s house. How 
could he mistake the trees, growing with tufts to the ground, 
or the great birds which he used to think were crows, notwith- 
standing their red and yellow plumage ? It was all over red, 
brown, and yellow. He could remember and reconstruct the 
very faces, distorted and awful, which, in the delirium of 
childish sicknesses, he used to discover in the foliage and stems 


314 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


of the trees. It made the whole place seem to him homely and 
kind. When he got tired, he knelt by his bedside, which ho 
had not done for a long time, and then went to bed. Hard- 
ship ! No. It was very pleasant to see the dying fire and his 
books about and his papers ; and to dream, half asleep and half 
awake, that the house-fairies were stealing out to gambol for a 
little in the fire-lighted silence of the room as he slept, and to 
vanish as the embers turned black. He had not been so happy 
for a long time as now. The writing of that letter had removed 
a load from his heart. True we can never be at peace till 
we have performed the highest duty of all, — till we have arisen, 
and gone to our Father ; but the performance of smaller duties, 
yes, even of the smallest, will do more to give us temporary 
repose, will act more as healthful anodynes, than the greatest 
joys that can come to us from any other quarter. He soon fell 
asleep, and dreamed that he was a little child, lost in a snow- 
storm ; and that, just as the snow had reached above his head, 
and he was beginning to be smothered, a great hand caught 
hold of him by the arm and lifted him out ; and, lo ! the storm 
had ceased, and the stars were sparkling overhead like diamonds 
that had been drinking the light of the sun all day ; and he 
saw that it was David, as strong as ever, who had rescued him, 
the little child, and was leading him home to Janet. But he 
got sleepy and faint upon the way, which was long and cold ; 
and then David lifted him up and carried him in his bosom, and 
he fell asleep. When he woke, and, opening his eyes, looked 
up to him who bore him, it was David no longer. The face was 
that which was marred more than any man’s, because the soul 
within had loved more : it was the face of the Son of Man, and 
he was carrying him like a lamb in his bosom. He gazed more 
and more as they travelled through the cold night ; and the 
joy of lying in the embrace of that man grew and grew, till 
it became too strong for the bonds of sleep ; and he awoke in 
the fog of a London morning. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


815 


CHAPTER L. 

ENDEAVORS. 


And, even should misfortunes come, 

— I, here wha sit., hae met wi’ some, 

An’s thankfu’ for them yet. 

They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel’; 

They mak’ us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. 

Tho’ losses and crosses 

Be lessons right severe, 

There’s wit there, ye’ll get there, 

Ye’ll find nae other where. 

Burns. 

Hugh took his advertisement to the “ Times 99 office, and paid 
what seemed to him an awful amount for its insertion. Then 
he wandered about London till the middle of the day, when he 
went into a baker’s shop, and bought two penny loaves, which 
he put in his pocket. Having found his way to the British 
Museum, he devoured them at his leisure as he walked through 
the Grecian and Roman saloons. “ What is the use of good 
health,” he said to himself, “ if a man cannot live upon bread ? ” 
Porridge and oatmeal cakes would have pleased him as well ; 
but that food for horses is not so easily procured in London, 
and costs more than the other. A cousin of his had lived in 
Edinburgh for six months upon eighteen-pence a week in that 
way, and had slept the greater part of the time upon the floor, 
training himself for the hardships of a soldier’s life. And he 
could not forget the college youth whom his comrades had con- 
sidered mean, till they learned that, out of his poor bursary 
of fourteen pounds a session, and what he could make besides 
by private teaching, at the rate previously mentioned or even 
less, he helped his parents to educate a younger brother; and, 
in order to do so, lived himself upon oatmeal and potatoes. 
But they did not find this out till after he was dead, poor fel- 
low ! He could not stand it. 

1 ought at the same time to mention, that Hugh rarely made 
use of a crossing on a muddy day, without finding a half-penny 
somewhere about him for the sweeper. He would rather walk 


316 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


through oceans of mud, than cross at the natural place when 
he had no coppers, — especially if he had patent leather boots 
on. 

After he had eaten his bread, he went home to get some 
water. Then, as he had nothing else to do, he sat down in his 
room, and began to manufacture a story, thinking it just pos- 
sible it might be accepted by one or other of the pseudo-literary 
publications with which London is inundated in hebdomadal 
floods. He found spinning almost as easy as if he had been a 
spider, for he had a ready invention, and a natural gift of 
speech; so that, in a few days, he had finished a story quite 
as good as most of those that appear in the better sort of weekly 
publications. This, in his modesty, he sent to one of the 
inferior sort, and heard nothing more of it than if he had flung 
it into the sea. Possibly he flew too low. He tried again ; 
but with no better success. His ambition grew with his dis- 
appointments, or perhaps rather with the exercise of his 
faculties. Before many days had passed, he made up his mind 
to try a novel. For three months he worked at this six hours 
a day regularly. When material failed him, from the exhaus- 
tion consequent upon uninterrupted production, he would 
recreate himself by lying fallow for an hour or two, or walking 
out in a mood for merely passive observation. But this 
anticipates. 

His advertisement did not produce a single inquiry, and he 
shrunk from spending more money in such an apparently 
unprofitable appliance. Day after day went by, and no voice 
reached him from the unknown world of labor. He went at 
last to several stationers’ shops in the neighborhood, bought 
some necessary articles, and took these opportunities of asking 
if they knew of any one in want of such assistance as he could 
give. But, unpleasant as he felt it to make such inquiries, he 
soon found that to most people it was equally unpleasant to 
reply to them. There seemed to be something disreputable in 
having to answer such questions, to judge from the constrained, 
indifferent, and sometimes, though not often, surly answers 
which he received. Can it be,” thought Hugh, “ as dis- 
graceful to ask for work as to ask for bread ? ” If he had had 
a thousand a year, and had wanted a situation of another 
thousand, it would have been quite commendable ; but to try to 


DAVID ELGINBRCD. 


817 


elude cold and hunger by inquiring after paltry shillings’ 
worths of hard labor was despicable. 

So he placed the more hope upon his novel, and worked at 
that diligently. But he did not find it quite so easy as he had 
at first expected. No one finds anything either so easy or so 
difficult as, in opposite moods, he had expected to find it. 
Everything is possible ; but without labor and failure nothing 
is achievable. The labor, however, comes naturally, and 
experience grows without agonizing transitions j while the 
failure generally points, in its detected cause, to the way of 
future success. He worked on. 

He did not, however, forget the ring. Frequent were his 
meditations, in the pauses of his story, and when walking in 
the streets, as to the best means of recovering it. I should 
rather say any means than best ; for it was not yet a question 
of choice and degrees. The count could not but have known 
that the ring was of no money value ; therefore it was not 
likely that he had stolen it in order to part with it again. 
Consequently it would be of no use to advertise it, or to search 
for it in the pawnbrokers’ or second-hand jewellers’ shops. To 
find the crystal, it was clear as itself that he must first find the 
count. 

But how ? He could think of no plan. Any alarm would 
place the count on the defensive, and the jewel at once beyond 
reach. Besides, he wished to keep the whole matter quiet, and 
gain his object without his or any other name coming before 
the public. Therefore he would not venture to apply to the 
police, though doubtless they would be able to discover the 
man, if he were anywhere in London. He surmised that in all 
probability they knew him already. But he could not come 
to any conclusion as to the object he must have had in view in 
securing such a trifle. 

Hugh had all but forgotten the count's cheque for a hundred 
guineas ; for, in the first place, he had never intended presenting 
it — the repugnance which some minds feel to using money 
which they have neither received by gift, nor acquired by 
honest earning, being at least equal to the pleasure other 
minds feel in gaining it without the expense of either labor or 
obligation ; and, in the second place, since he knew more about 
the drawer, he had felt sure that it wculd be of no use to 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


&18 

present it. To make this latter conviction a certainty, he did 
present it, and found that there were no effects. 


CHAPTER LI. 

A LETTER FROM THE POST. 

Hipolito . Is your wife then departed ? 

Orlando. She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me : here, 
ehe’s here ; a good couple are seldom parted. — Dekker. 

What wonderful things letters are ! In trembling and hope 
the fingers unclasp, and the folded sheet drops into — no, not 
the post-office letter-box, but into — space. 

I have read a story somewhere of a poor child that dropped 
a letter into the post-office, addressed to Jesus Christ in, 
Heaven. And it reached him, and the child had her answer. 
For was it not Christ present in the good man or woman — I 
forget the particulars of the story — who sent the child the 
help she needed ? There was no necessity for him to answer 
in person, as in the case of Abgarus, King of Edessa. 

Out of space from somewhere comes the answer. Such 
letters as those given in a previous chapter are each a spirit- 
cry sent out, like a Noah’s dove, into the abyss ; and the spirit 
turns its ear, where its mouth had been turned before, and leans 
listening for the spirit-echo, — the echo with a soul in it, — the 
answering voice which out of the abyss will enter by the gato 
now turned to receive it. Whose will be the voice? What 
will be the sense ? What chords on the harp of life have been 
struck afar off by the arrow-words of the letter ? What tones 
will they send back to the longing, hungering ear? The 
mouth hath spoken, that the fainting ear may be filled by the 
return of its words through the alembic of another soul. 

One cause of great uneasiness to Hugh was, that, for some 
time after a reply might have been expected, he received no 
answer from David Elginbrod. At length, however, a letter 
arrived, upon the handwriting of which he speculated in vain, 
perplexed with a resemblance in it to some writing that he knew ; 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


319 


and when he opened it, he found the following answer to hia 
own : — 

“Dear Mr. Sutherland: — Your letter to my father has been sent 
to me by my mother, for what you will feel to be the sad reason, that 
he is no more in this world. But I cannot say it is so very sad to me to 
think that he is gone home, where my mother and I will soon join him. 
True love can wait well. Nor indeed, dear Mr. Sutherland, must you 
be too much troubled that your letter never reached him. My father 
was like God in this, that he always forgave anything the moment 
there was anything to forgive ; for when else could there be such a good 
time? — although, of course, the person forgiven could not know it till 
he asked for forgiveness. But, dear Mr. Sutherland, if you could see 
me smiling as I write, and could yet see how earnest my heart is in 
writing it, I would venture to say that, in virtue of my knowing my 
father as I do, — for I am sure I know his very soul, as near as human 
love could know it, — I forgive you, in his name, for anything and 
everything with which you reproach yourself in regard to him. Ah * 
how much I owe you! And how much he used to say he owed you! 
We shall thank you one day, when we all meet. 

“ I am, dear Mr. Sutherland, 

“ Your grateful scholar, 

“ Margaret Elginbrod.” 

Hugh burst into tears on reading this letter. — with no 
overpowering sense of his own sin, for he felt that he was for- 
given ; but with a sudden insight into the beauty and grandeur 
of the man whom he had neglected, and the wondrous loveliness 
which he had transmitted from the feminine part of his nature 
to the wholly feminine and therefore delicately powerful nature 
of Margaret. The vision he had beheld in the library at Arn- 
stead, about which, as well as about many other things that 
had happened to him there, he could form no theory capable of 
embracing all the facts. — this vision returned to his mind’s 
eye, and he felt that the glorified face he had beheld must 
surely have been Margaret’s, whether he had seen it in the 
body or out of the body: such a face alone seemed to him 
worthy of the writer of this letter. Purposely or not, there 
wa3 no address given in it; and to his surprise, when he ex- 
amined the envelope with the utmost care, he could discover 
no postmark but the London one. The date-stamp likewise 
showed that it must have been posted in London. 

“ So,” said he to himself, “in my quest of a devil, I may 
cross the track of an angel, who knows ? But how can she be 
here?” 

To tb is of course he had no answer at hand. 


&20 


©AVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER LII. 


BEGINNINGS. 


Since a man is bound no farther to himself than to do wisely, chance is only to 
trouble them that stand upon chance. — Sir Philip Sidney. — The Arcadia. 


Meantime a feeble star, but sparkling some rays of comfort, 
began to shine upon Hugh’s wintry prospects. This star arose 
in°a grocer’s shop. For one day his landlady, whose grim 
attentions had been increasing rather than diminishing, ad- 
dressed him suddenly as she was removing his breakfast 
apparatus. This was a very extraordinary event, for she 
seldom addressed him at all ; and replied, when he addressed 
her, only in the briefest manner possible. 

“ Have you got any pupils yet, Mr. Sutherland? ” 
jjo — I am sorry to say. But how did you come to know 
1 wanted any, Miss Talbot ? ” 

“ You shouldn’t have secrets at home, Mr. Sutherland. I 
like to know what concerns my own family, and I generally 
find out.” 

“You saw my advertisement, perhaps ? ” 

To this suggestion Miss Talbot made no other answer than 
the usual compression of her lips. 

“ You wouldn’t be above teaching a tradesman’s son to 
begin with ? ” 

‘ ‘ Certainly not. I should be very happy. Do you know 
of such a pupil? ” 

“ Well, I can’t exactly say I do know or I don’t know ; but 
I happened to mention to my grocer round the corner that you 
wanted pupils. Don’t suppose, Mr. Sutherland, that I’m in 
the way of talking about any young men of mine ; but — ’ ’ 

“ Not for a moment,” interrupted Hugh; and Miss Talbol 
resumed, evidently gratified. 

“ Well, if you wouldn’t mind stepping round the corner, I 
shouldn’t wonder if you might make an arrangement with Mr. 
Appleditch. He said you might call upon him if you liked.” 

Hugh jumped up, and got his hat at once ; received the few 
necessary directions from Miss Talbot, and soon found the 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


321 


shop. There were a good many poor people in it, buying 
sugar, and soap, etc. ; and one lady apparently giving a large 
order. A young man came to Hugh, and bent over the counter 
in a recipient position, like a live point of interrogation. Hugh 
answered : — 

“ Mr. Appleditch.” 

“ Mr. Appleditch will be disengaged in a few minutes. 
Will you take a seat? ” 

The grocer was occupied with the lady and her order ; but 
as soon as she departed, he approached Hugh behind the ram- 
part, and stood towards him in the usual retail attitude. 

“ My name is Sutherland.” 

“ Sutherland ? ” said Mr. Appleditch ; “I think I’ve ’eard 
the name somewheres, but I don’t know the face.” 

“ Miss Talbot mentioned me to you, I understand, Mr. 
Appleditch.” 

“Oh! ah! I remember. I beg your pardon. Will you 
step this way, Mr. Sutherland ? ” 

Hugh followed him through a sort of drawbridge which he 
lifted in the counter, into a little appendix at the back of the 
shop. Mr. Appleditch was a meek-looking man, with large 
eyes, plump, pasty cheeks, and a thin little person. 

“ ’Ow de do, Mr. Sutherland?” said he, holding out his 
hand, as soon as they had reached this retreat. 

“ Thank you — quite well,” answered Sutherland, shaking 
hands with him as well as he could, the contact not being 
altogether pleasant. 

“ So you want pupils, do you, sir ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ah ! well, you see, sir, pupils is scarce at this season. 
They aint to be bought in every shop — ha! ha!” (The 
laugh was very mild.) “ But I think Mrs. Appleditch could 
find you one, if you could agree with her about the charge, 
you know, and all that.” 

“ How old is he ? A boy, I suppose ? ” 

“Well, you’re right, sir. It is a boy. Not very old. 
though. My Samuel is just ten, but a wonderful forward boy 
for his years — bless him ! ” 

“ Aud what would you wish him to learn ? ” 

“ Oh ! Latin and Greek, and all that. We intend bringing 
21 


322 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


him up for the ministry. I hope your opinions are decided, 
sir? ” 

11 On some points, they are. But I do not know to what 
you refer exactly.” 

“ I mean theological opinions, sir.” 

“ But I shall not have to teach your little boy theology.” 

11 Certainly not, sir. That department belongs to his 
mother and I. Unworthy vessels, sir; mere earthen vessels; 
but filled with the grace of God, I hope, sir.” 

The grocer parted his hands, which he had been rubbing 
together during this conversation, and lifted them upwards 
from the wrists, like the fins of a seal ; then dropping them, 
fell to rubbing them again. 

“I hope so. Well — you know the best way will be for 
me — not knowing your opinions — to avoid everything of a 
religious kind.” 

“ Ah ! but it should be line upon line, you know; here a 
little, and there a little, sir. As the how is bent, you know — 
the — hoop is made, you know, sir.” 

Here Mr. Appleditch stepped to the door suddenly, and 
peeped out, as if he feared he was wanted ; but presently 
returning, he continued : — 

“ But time’s a precious gift, sir, and we must not waste it. 
So, if you’ll do us the honor, sir, to dine with us next Lord’s 
day, — we may call it a work of necessity, you know, — you 
will see the little Samuel, and — and — Mrs. Appleditch.” 

“ I shall be very happy. What is your address, Mr. Ap- 
pleditch? ” 

“ You had better come to Salem Chapel, Dervish town, and 
we can go home together. Service commences at eleven. Mrs. 
Appleditch will be glad to see you. Ask for Mr. Appleditch’s 
pew. Goo-ood-morning, sir.” 

Hugh took his leave, half inclined to send an excuse before 
the day arrived, and decline the connection. But his princi- 
ple was, to take whatever olfered, and thus make way for the 
next thing. Besides, he thus avoided the responsibility of 
choice, from which he always shrunk. 

He returned to his novel ; but, alas ! the inventive faculty 
point-blank refused to work under the weight of such a Sun- 
day in prospect. He wandered out, quite dispirited ; but, be* 


DAVID ELGINBROr. 


328 


fore long, to take his revenge upon circumstances, resolved at 
least to have a dinner out of them. So he went to a chop- 
house, had a chop and a glass of ale, and was astonished to 
find how much he enjoyed them. In fact, abstinence gave his 
very plain dinner more than all the charms of a feast, — a fact 
of which Hugh has not been the only discoverer. He studied 
“ Punch ” all the time he ate, and rose with his spirits perfectly 
restored. 

“ Now I am in for it,” said he, “ I will be extravagant for 
once.” So he went and bought a cigar, which he spun out 
into three miles of smoke, as he wandered through Shoreditch, 
and Houndsditch, and Petticoat-lane, gazing at the faces of 
his brothers and sisters ; which faces, having been so many 
years wrapt in a fog both moral and physical, now looked out 
of it as if they were only the condemned nuclei of the same 
fog and filth. 

As he was returning through Whitechapel, he passed a man 
on the pavement, whose appearance was so remarkable that he 
could not help looking back after him. When he reflected 
about it, he thought that it must have been a certain indescrib- 
able resemblance to David Elginbrod that had so attracted him. 
The man was very tall. Six-foot Hugh felt dwarfed beside 
him, for he had to look right up, as he passed, to see his face. 
He was dressed in loose, shabby black. He had high and 
otherwise very marked features, and a dark complexion. A 
general carelessness of demeanor was strangely combined with 
an expression of reposeful strength and quiet concentration of 
will. At how much of this conclusion Hugh arrived after 
knowing more of him I cannot tell ; but such was the descrip- 
tion he gave of him as he saw him first ; and it was thoroughly 
correct. His countenance always seemed to me (for I knew 
him well) to represent a nature ever bent in one direction, but 
never in haste, because never in doubt. 

To carry his extravagance and dissipation still further, Hugh 
now betook himself to the pit of the Olympic Theatre ; and no 
one could have laughed more heartily, or cried more helplessly 
that night than he ; for he gave himself wholly up to the influen- 
ces of the ruler of the hour, the admirable Robson. But what was 
his surprise, when, standing up at the close of the first act and 
looking around and above him, he saw, unmistakably, the same 


324 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


remarkable countenance looking down upon him from the front 
row of the gallery. He continued hjs circuit of observation, 
trying to discover the face of Funkelstein in the boxes or cir- 
cles ; but involuntarily he turned his gaze back to the strange 
countenance, which still seemed bent towards his. The curtain 
rose, and during the second act he forgot all about everything 
else. At its close he glanced up to the gallery again, and 
there was the face still, and still looking at him. At the close of 
the third act it had vanished, and he saw nothing more of it that 
evening. When the after-piece was over, for he sat it out, he 
walked quietly home, much refreshed. He had needed some 
relaxation, after many days of close and continuous labor. 

But awfully solemn was the face of good Miss Talbot, as she 
opened the door for him at midnight. Hugh took especial 
pains with his boots and the door-mat, but it was of no use ; 
the austerity of her countenance would not relax in the least. 
So he took his candle and walked upstairs to his room, saying 
only as he went, being unable to think of anything else : — 

“ Good-night, Miss Talbot.” 

But no response proceeded from the offended divinity of the 
place. 

He went to bed somewhat distressed at the behavior of Miss 
Talbot, for he had a weakness for being on good terms with 
everybody. But he resolved to have it out with her next 
morning ; and so fell asleep and dreamed of the strange man 
who had watched him at the theatre. 

He rose next morning at the usual time. But his breakfast 
was delayed half an hour ; and when it came, the maid waited 
upon him, and not her mistress, as usual. When he had 
finished, and she returned to take away the ruins, he asked her 
to say to her mistress that he wanted to speak to her. She 
brought back a message, which she delivered with some diffi- 
culty, and evidently under compulsion, — that if Mr. Suther- 
land wanted to speak to her, he would find her in the back 
parlor. Hugh went down instantly, and found Miss Talbot in 
a doubly frozen condition, her face absolutely blue with phys- 
ical and mental cold combined. She waited for him to speak. 
Hugh began : — 

“ Miss Talbot, it seems something is wrong between you and 
me.” 


DAVID ELGIN BKOD. 


325 


4 Yes, Mr. Sutherland.” 

“ Is it because I was rather late last night? ” 

“ Rather late, Mr. Sutherland ? ” 

Miss Talbot showed no excitement. With her, the ther- 
mometer, in place of rising under the influence of irritation, 
steadily sank. 

11 1 cannot make myself a prisoner on parole, you know 
Miss Talbot. You must leave me my liberty.” 

“ Oh, yes, Mr. Sutherland. Take your liberty. You’ll go 
the way of all the rest. It’s no use trying to save any of you.” 

“ But I’m not aware that I am in any particular want of 
saving, Miss Talbot.” 

“ There it is ! — Well, till a sinner is called and awakened, 
of course it’s no use. So I’ll just do the best I can for you. 
Who can tell when the Spirit may be poured from on high ? 
But it’s very sad to me, Mr. Sutherland, to see an amiable 
young man like you, going the way of transgressors, which is 
hard. I am sorry for you, Mr. Sutherland.” 

Though the ice was not gone yet, it had begun to melt under 
the influences of Hugh’s good-temper, and Miss Talbot’s sym- 
pathy with his threatening fate. Conscience, too, had some- 
thing to do with the change ; for, much as one of her tempera- 
ment must have disliked making such a confession, she ended 
by adding, after a pause : — 

u And very sorry, Mr. Sutherland, that I showed you any 
bad temper last night.” 

Poor Miss Talbot! Hugh saw that she was genuinely 
troubled about him, and resolved to offend but seldom while 
he was under her roof. 

“ Perhaps, when you know me longer, you will find I am 
steadier than you think.” 

“ Well, it may be. But steadiness won’t make a Christian 
of you.” 

11 It may make a tolerable lodger of me though,” answered 
Hugh; “ and you wouldn’t turn me into the street because I 
am steady and nothing more, would you? ” 

Ll I said I was sorry, Mr. Sutherland. Do you wish me to 
say more ? ” 

“ Bless your kind heart ! ” said Hugh. “ I was only 
joking.” 


m 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


He held out his hand to Miss Talbot, and her eyes glistened 
as she took it. She pressed it kindly, and abandoned it in* 
stantly. 

So all was right between them once more. 

“Who knows,” murmured Miss Talbot, “but the Lord 
may save him ? He’s surely not far from the kingdom of heav* 
en. I’ll do all I can to make him comfortable.” 


CHAPTER LIII. 

A SUNDAY’S DINNER. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 

And some great lies were never penned: 

Even ministers, they hae been kenned. 

In holy rapture, 

Great lies and nonsense baith to vend, 

And nail’t wi’ Scripture. 

Burns* 

To the great discomposure of Hugh, Sunday was inevitable, 
and he had to set out for Salem Chapel. He found it a neat 
little Noah’s Ark of a place, built in the shape of a cathedral, 
and consequently sharing in the general disadvantages to which 
dwarfs of all kinds are subjected, absurdity included. He was 
shown to Mr. Appleditch’s pew. That worthy man received 
him in sleek black clothes, with white neckcloth, and Sunday 
face composed of an absurd mixture of stupidity and sanctity. 
He stood up, and Mrs. Appleditch stood up, and Master Apple- 
ditch stood up, and Hugh saw that the ceremony of the place 
Tequired that he should force his way between the front of the 
pew and the person of each of the human beings occupying it, 
till he reached the top, where there was room for him to sit 
down. No other recognition was taken till after service. 

Meantime the minister ascended the pulpit-stair, with all the 
solemnity of one of the self-elect, and a priest besides. He 
was just old enough for the intermittent attacks of self-impor- 
tance, to which all youth is exposed, to have in his case become 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


327 


chronic. He stood up and worshipped his Creator aloud, aftei 
a manner which seemed to say in every tone : 11 Behold, I am 
he that worshippeth Thee ! How mighty art Thou ! ” Then he 
read the Bible in a quarrelsome sort of way, as if he were a 
bantam, and every verse were a crow of defiance to the sinner. 
Then they sang a hymn in a fashion which brought dear old 
Scotland to Hugh’s mind, which has the sweetest songs in its 
cottages, and the worst singing in its churches, of any country 
in the world. But it was almost equalled here ; the chief cause 
of its badness being the absence of a modest self-restraint, and 
consequent tempering of the tones, on the part of the singers ; 
so that the result was what Hugh could describe only as 
scraichin .* 

I was once present at the worship of some being who is sup- 
posed by negroes to love drums and cymbals, and all clangorous 
noises. The resemblance, according to Hugh’s description, 
could not have been a very distant one. And yet I doubt not 
that some thoughts of worshipping love mingled with the noise ; 
and perhaps the harmony of these with the spheric melodies 
sounded the sweeter to the angels, from the earthly discord in 
which they were lapped. 

Then came the sermon. The text was the story of the good 
Samaritan. Some idea, if not of the sermon, yet of the value 
of it, may be formed from the fact that the first thing to be 
considered, or, in other words, the first head was, “ The culpa- 
ble imprudence of the man in going from Jerusalem to Jericho 
without an escort.” 

It was, in truth, a strange, grotesque, and somewhat awlul 
medley, — not unlike a dance of Death, in which the painter 
has given here a lovely face, and there a beautiful arm or an 
exquisite foot, to the wild-prancing and exultant skeletons. But 
the parts of the sermon corresponding to the beautiful face, or 
arm, or foot, were but the fragments of Scripture, shining like 
gold amidst the worthless ore of the man’s own production, — 
worthless, save as gravel, or chaff, or husks have worth, in a 
world where dilution, and not always concentration, is necessary 
for healthfulness. 

But there are Indians who eat clay, and thrive on it more or 


• Ch guttural. The land-rail is a corn-scratch . 


328 


DAVID DLGINDROD 


less, I suppose. The power of assimilation which a growing 
nature must possess is astonishing. It will find its food, its 
real Sunday dinner, in the midst of a whole cart-load of refuse ; 
and it will do the whole week’s work on it. On no other sup- 
position would it be possible to account for the earnest face of 
Miss Talbot, which Hugh espied turned up to the preacher, as 
if his face were the very star in the east, shining to guide the 
chosen kings. It was well for Hugh’s power of endurance that 
he had heard much the same thing in Scotland, and the same 
thing better dressed and less grotesque, but more lifeless, and 
at heart as ill-mannered, in the church of Arnstead. 

Just before concluding the service, the pastor made an an- 
nouncement in the following terms : — 

“ After the close of the present service, I shall be found in 
the adjoining vestry by all persons desirous of communicating 
with me on the state of their souls, or of being admitted to the 
privileges of church-fellowship. Brethren, we have this treas- 
ure in earthen vessels, and so long as this vessel lasts” — here 
he struck his chest so that it resounded — “ it shall be faith- 
fully and liberally dispensed. Let us pray.” 

After the prayer, he spread abroad his arms and hands, as if 
he would clasp the world in his embrace, and pronounced the 
benediction in a style of arrogance that the Pope himself would 
have been ashamed of. 

The service being thus concluded, the organ absolutely 
blasted the congregation out of the chapel, so did it storm and 
rave with a fervor anything but divine. 

My readers must not suppose that I give this chapel as the 
type of orthodox dissenting chapels. I give it only as an ap- 
proximate specimen of a large class of them. The religious life 
which these communities once possessed still lingers in those 
of many country districts and small towns, but is, I fear, all 
but gone from those cf the cities and larger towns. What of 
it remains in these has its chief manifestation in the fungous 
growth of such chapels as the one I have described, the con- 
gregations themselves taking this for a sure indication of the 
prosperity of the body. How much even of the kind of pros- 
perity which they ought to indicate is in reality at the founda- 
tion of these appearances, I would recommend those to judge 
who are versed in the mysteries of chapel-building societies. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


329 


As to Hugh, whether it was that the whole affair was sug- 
gestive of Egyptian bondage, or that his own mood was, at the 
time, of the least comfortable sort, I will not pretend to deter- 
mine ; but he assured me that he felt all the time as if, instead 
of being in a chapel built of bricks harmoniously arianged, as 
by the lyre of Amphion, he were wandering in the waste, 
wretched field whence these bricks had been dug, Df all places 
on the earth’s surface the most miserable, assailed by the nau- 
seous odors, which have not character enough to be described, 
and only remind one of the colors on a snake’s back. 

When they reached the open air, Mr. Appleditch introduced 
Hugh to Mrs. Appleditch on the steps in front of the chapel. 

“ This is Mr. Sutherland, Mrs. Appleditch.” 

Hugh lifted his hat, and Mrs. Appleditch made a courtesy. 
She was a very tall woman, — a head beyond her husband, — 
extremely thin, with sharp nose, hollow cheeks, and good eyes. 
In fact, she was partly pretty, and might have been pleasant- 
looking but for a large, thin-lipped, vampire-like mouth, and a 
general expression of greed and contempt. She was meant for 
a lady, and had made herself a money-maggot. She was richly 
and plainly dressed ; and, until she began to be at her ease, 
might have passed for an unpleasant lady. Master Appleditch, 
the future pastor, was a fat boy, dressed like a dwarf, in a 
frock-coat and man’s hat. with a face in which the meanness 
and keenness strove for mastery, and between them kept down 
the appearance of stupidity consequent on fatness. They 
walked home in silence, — Mr. and Mrs. Appleditch apparently 
pondering either upon the spiritual food they had just received, 
or the corporeal food for which they were about to be thank- 
ful. 

Their house was one of many in a crescent. Not content 
with his sign in town, the grocer had a large brass plate on his 
door, with Appleditch engraved upon it in capitals : it saved 
them always looking at the numbers. The boy ran on before, 
and assailed this door with a succession of explosive knocks. 

As soon as it was opened in he rushed, bawling : — 

“ Peter, Peter, here’s the new apprentice! Papa’s brought 
him home to dinner, because he was at chapel this morning.” 
Then, in a lower tone, “I mean to have a ride on his back 
tb's afternoon 1 


330 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


The father and mother laughed. A solemn, priggish little 
voice answered : — 

“ Oh, no, Johnny. Don’t you know what day this is? 
This is the Sabbath-day.” 

“ The dear boy ! ” sighed his mother. 

“ That boy is too good to live,” responded the father. 

Hugh was shown into the dining-room, where the table was 
already laid for dinner. It was evident that the Appleditches 
were well-to-do people. The room was full of what is called 
handsome furniture, in a high state of polish. Over the chim- 
ney-piece hung the portrait of a preacher in gown and bands, 
the most prominent of whose features were his cheeks. 

In a few minutes the host and hostess entered, followed by a 
pale-faced little boy, the owner of the voice of reproof. 

“ Come here, Peetie,” said his mother, “ and tell Mr. Suth- 
erland what you have got.” 

She referred to some toy, — no, not toy, for it was the Sab- 
bath, — to some book, probably. 

Peetie answered, in a solemn voice, mouthing every vowel : — 

1 1 I’ve got five bags of gold in the Bank of England.” 

“ Poor child ! ” said his mother, with a scornful giggle. 

1 You wouldn’t have much to reckon on, if that were all.” 

Two or three gayly dressed riflemen passed the window. The 
poor fellows, unable to bear the look of their Sunday clothes, 
if they had any, after being used to their uniform, had come 
out in all its magnificence. 

“Ah!” said Mr. Appleditch, “that’s all very well in a 
state of nature ; but when a man is once born into a state of 
grace, Mr. Sutherland — ah ! ” 

“Really,” responded Mrs. Appleditch, “the worldliness 
of the lower classes is quite awful. But they are spared for a 
day of wrath, poor things ! I am sure that accident on the 
railway last Sabbath might have been a w'arning to them all. 
After that they can’t say there is not a God that ruleth in the 
earth, and taketh vengeance for his broken Sabbaths.” 

“Mr. , I don’t know your name,” said Peter, whose 

age Hugh had just been trying in vain to conjecture. 

“Mr. Sutherland,” said the mother. 

“ Mr. Slubber man, are you a converted character ? ” re- 
sumed Peter. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


331 


11 Why do you ask me that. Master Peter ? ” said Hugh, 
trying to smile. 

“ I think you look good, but mamma says she don’t think 
you are, because you say Sunday instead of Sabbath, and she 
always finds people who do are worldly.” 

Mrs. Appleditch turned red, — not blushed, — and said, 
quickly : — 

“ Peter shouldn’t repeat everything he hears.” 

“ No more I do, ma. I haven’t told what you said 
about — ” 

Here his mother caught him up, and carried him out of the 
room, saying : — 

“ You naughty boy ! you shall go to bed.” 

“ Oh, no, I shan’t.” 

“Yes, you shall. Here, Jane, take this naughty boy to 
bed.” 

“I’ll scream.” 

“ Will you? ” 

“ Yes, I will ! ” 

And such a yell was there 
Of sudden and portentous birth, 

As if 

ten cats were being cooked alive. 

“ Well ! well ! well ! my Peetie ! He shan’t go to bed, if 
he’ll be a good boy. Will he be good? ” 

“ May I stay up to supper then ? May I ? ” 

“Yes, yes ; anything to stop such dreadful screaming. You 
are very naughty — very naughty indeed.” 

“No. I’m not naughty. I’ll scream again.” 

“No, no. Go and get your pinafore on, and come down to 
dinner. Anything rather than a scream.” 

I am sick of all this, and doubt if it is worth printing ; but 
it amused me very much one night as Hugh related it over a 
bottle of Chablis and a pipe. 

He certainly did not represent Mrs. Appleditch in a very 
favorable light on the whole ; but he took care to say that there 
was a certain liberality about the table, and a kind of hearti- 
ness in her way of pressing him to have more than he could 
possibly eat, which contrasted strangely with her behavior 


332 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


afterwards in money matters. There are many people who can 
be liberal in almost anything but money. They seem to say, 
li Take anything but my purse.” Miss Talbot told him after- 
wards that this same lady was quite active amongst the poor 
of her district. She made it a rule never to give money, or at 
least never more than sixpence ; but she turned scraps of 
victuals and cast-off clothes to the best account ; and, if she did 
not make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, she yet 
kept an eye on the eternal habitations in the distribution of the 
crumbs that fell from her table. Poor Mr. Appleditch, on the 
other hand, often embezzled a shilling or a half crown from the 
till, for the use of a poor member of the same church,— 
meaning by church , the individual community to which he 
belonged; but of this, Mrs. Appleditch was carefully kept 
ignorant. 

After dinner was over, and the children had been sent away, 
which was effected without a greater amount of difficulty than, 
from the anticipative precautions adopted, appeared to be law- 
ful and ordinary, Mr. Appleditch proceeded to business. 

“Now, Mr. Sutherland, what do you think of Johnnie, 

WT?” T • MV 

11 It is impossible for me to say yet; but I am quite willing 
to teach him if you like.” 

“ He’s a forward boy,” said his mother. 

“ Not a doubt of it,” responded Hugh ; for he remembered 
the boy asking him, across the table, “ Isn’t our Mr. Lixom ” 
— the pastor — “a oner ? ” 

11 And very eager and retentive,” said his father. 

Hugh had seen the little glutton paint both cheeks to the 
eyes with damson tart, and render more than a quantity pro- 
portionate to the coloring invisible. 

“Yes, he is eager, and retentive too, I dare say,” he said; 

1 but much will depend on whether he has a turn for study. 

“ Well, you will find that out to-morrow. I think you will 
be surprised, sir.” 

“ At what hour would you like me to come ? ” 

« Stop, Mr. Appleditch,” interposed his wife. “ You have 
said nothing yet about terms ; and that is of some importance, 
considering the rent and taxes we pay.” 

“ Well, my love, what do you feel inclined to give? ” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


333 


“ How much do you charge a lesson, Mr. Sutherland? 
Only let me remind you, sir, that he is a very little boy, 
although stout, and that you cannot expect to put much Greek 
and Latin into him for some time yet. Besides, we want you 
to come every day, which ought to be considered in the rate 
of charge.” 

“ Of course it ought,” said Hugh. 

“ How much do you say, then, sir ? ” 

“ I should be content with half a crown a lesson.” 

“ I dare say you would ! ” replied the lady, with indignation. 
“ Half a crown ! That’s — six half crowns is — fifteen shil- 
lings. Fifteen shillings a week for that mite of a boy ! Mr. 
Sutherland, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir.” 

“ You forget, Mrs. Appleditch, that it is as much trouble 
to me to teach one little boy — yes, a great deal more than to 
teach twenty grown men.” 

11 You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir. You a Christian 
man, and talk of trouble in teaching such a little cherub as 
that ! ” 

‘ £ But do pray remember the distance I have to come, and 
that it will take nearly four hours of my time every day.” 

“ Then you can get lodgings nearer.” 

“ But I could not get any so cheap.” 

“ Then you can the better afford to do it.” 

And she threw herself back in her chair, as if she had struck 
the decisive blow. Mr. Appleditch remarked, gently : — 

« 1 It is good for your health to walk the distance, sir.” 

Mrs. Appleditch resumed : — 

“ I won’t give a farthing more than one shilling a lesson. 
There, now ! ” 

“Very well,” said Hugh, rising; “then I must wish you 
good-day. We need not waste more time in talking about it.” 

“ Surely you are not going to make any use of your time on 
a Sunday? ” said the grocer, mildly. “ Don’t be in a hurry, 
Mr. Sutherland. We tradespeople like to make the best 
bargain we can.” 

“Mr. Appleditch, I am ashamed of you. lou always will 
he vulgar. You always smell of the shop.” 

“ Well, my dear, how can I help it? The sugar and soft- 
seap will smell, you know.” 


834 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ Mr. Appleditch, you disgust me! ” 

“ Dear ! dear ! I am sorry for that. Suppose we say to 
Mr. Sutherland — ” 

“Now, you leave that to me. I’ll tell you what, Mr 
Sutherland — I’ll give you eighteen-pence a lesson, and your 
dinner on the Sabbath ; that is, if you sit under Mr. Lixom in 
our pew, and walk home with us.” 

“ That I must decline,” said Hugh. “I must have my 
Sundays for myself.” 

Mrs. Appleditch was disappointed. She had coveted the 
additional importance which the visible possession of a live 
tutor would secure her at “Salem.” 

“ Ah ! Mr. Sutherland,” she said. “ And I must trust my 
child, with an immortal soul in his inside, to one who want3 
the Lord’s only day for himself ! — for himself \ Mr. Suther- 
land ! ” 

Hugh made no answer, because he had none to make. 
Again Mrs. Appleditch resumed : — 

“ Shall it be a bargain, Mr. Sutherland? Eighteen-pence 
a lesson, — that’s nine shillings a week, — and begin to- 
morrow ? ” 

Hugh’s heart sunk within him, not so much with disappoint- 
ment as with disgust. 

But to a man who is making nothing, the prospect of earning 
ever so little is irresistibly attractive. Even on a shilling a 
day he could keep hunger at arm’s length. And a beginning 
is half the battle. He resolved. 

“ Let it be a bargain then, Mrs. Appleditch.” 

The lady immediately brightened up, and at once put on her 
company-manners again, behaving to him with great politeness, 
and a sneer that would not be hid away under it. From this 
Hugh suspected that she had made a better bargain than she 
had hoped ; but the discovery was now too late, even if he could 
have brought himself to take advantage of it. He hated 
bargain-making as heartily as the grocer’s wife loved it. 

He very soon rose to take his leave. 

“Oh! ” said Mrs. Appleditch to her husband, “but Mr. 
Sutherland has not seen the drawing-room ! ” 

Hugh wondered what there could be remarkable about the 
drawing-room ; but he soon found that it was the pride of Mrs 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


335 


Appleditch’s heart. She abstained from all use of it except 
upon great occasions, — when parties of her friends came to 
drink tea with her. She made a point, however, of showing it 
to everybody who entered the house for the first time. So 
Hugh was led upstairs, to undergo the operation of being 
shown the drawing-room, and being expected to be astonished 
at it. 

I asked him what it was like. He answered, “ It was just 
what it ought to be, — rich and ugly. Mr. Appleditch, in his 
deacon’s uniform, hung over the fire, and Mrs. Appleditch, in 
her wedding-dress, over the piano ; for there was a piano, and 
she could play psalm-tunes on it with one finger. The round 
table in the middle of the room had books in gilded red and 
blue covers symmetrically arranged all round it. This is all I 
can recollect. ” 

Having feasted his eyes on the magnificence thus discovered 
to him, he walked home, more depressed at the prospect of his 
new employment than he could have believed possible. 

On his way, he turned aside into the Regent’s Park, where 
the sight of the people enjoying themselves — for it was a fine 
day for the season — partially dispelled the sense of living cor- 
ruption and premature burial which he had experienced all day 
long. He kept as far off from the rank of open-air preachers 
as possible, and really was able to thank God that all the 
world did not keep Scotch Sabbath, — a day neither Mosaic, 
nor Jewish, nor Christian : not Mosaic, inasmuch as it kills the 
very essence of the fourth commandment, which is Best, 
transmuting it into what the chemists would call a mechanical 
mixture of service and inertia ; not Jewish, inasmuch as it is 
ten times more severe, and formal, and full of negations, than 
that of the Sabbatarian Jews reproved by the Saviour for their 
idolatry of the day ; and unchristian, inasmuch as it insists, 
beyond appeal, on the observance of times and seasons, abolished, 
as far as law is concerned, by the word of the chief of the 
apostles, and elevates into an especial test of piety a custom 
not even mentioned by the founders of Christianity at all, — 
that, namely, of accounting this day more holy than all the rest. 

These last are but outside reasons for calling it unchristian. 
There are far deeper and more important ones, which cannot 
well be produced here. 


836 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


It is not Hugh, however, who is to be considered accountable 
for all this, but the historian of his fortunes, between whom and 
the vision of a Lord’s day indeed, there arises too often the 
nightmare-memory of a Scotch Sabbath ; between which and 
its cousin, the English Sunday, there is too much of a family 
likeness. The grand men and women whom I have known in 
Scotland seem to me, as I look back, to move about in the 
mists of a Scotch Sabbath, like a company of way-worn angels 
in the Limbo of Vanity, in which there is no air whereupon to 
smite their sounding wings, that they may rise into the sunlight 
of God’s presence. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

SUNDAY EVENING. 


Now resteth in my memory but this point, which indeed is the chief to you of all 
others; which is the choice of what men you are to direct yourself to ; for it is certain 
no vessel can leave a worse taste in the liquor it contains, than a wrong teacher 
infects an unskilful hearer with that which hardly will ever out. 

But you may say, “ How shall I get excellent men to take pains 

to speak with me ? ” Truly, in few words, either by much expense or much humbl*- 
ness. — Letter of Sir Philip Sidney to his brother Robert. 


How many things which, at the first moment, strike us as 
curious coincidences, afterward become so operative on our 
lives, and so interwoven with the whole web of their histories, 
that, instead of appearing any more as strange accidents, they 
assume the shape of unavoidable necessities, of homely, 
ordinary, lawful occurrences, as much in their own place as 
any shaft or pinion of a great machine ! 

It was dusk before Hugh turned his steps homeward. He 
wandered along, thinking of Euphra and the count and the 
stolen rings. He greatly desired to clear himself to Mr. Ar- 
nold. He saw that the nature of the ring tended to justify Mr. 
Arnold’s suspicions ; for a man who would not steal for money’s 
worth might yet steal for value of another sort, addressing it- 
self to some peculiar weakness ; and Mr. Arnold might have 
met with instances of this nature in his position as magistrate. 


DAVID VIGINBROD. 


837 


He greatly desired, likewise, for Euphra’s sake, to have Funk- 
elstein in his power. His own ring was beyond recovery ; but 
if, by its means, he could hold such a lash over him as would 
terrify him from again exercising his villanous influences on 
her, he would be satisfied. 

While plunged in this contemplation, he came upon tm> 
policemen talking together. He recognized one of them as a 
Scotchman, from his speech. It occurred to him at once to ask 
his advice, in a modified manner ; and a moment’s reflection 
convinced him that it would at least do no harm. He would 
do it. It was one of those resolutions at which one arrives by 
an arrow-flight of the intellect. 

“ You are a countryman of mine, I think,’ ’ said he, as soon 
as the two had parted. 

“If ye’re a Scotchman, sir — maybe ay, maybe no.” 

“ Whaur come ye frae, man ? ” 

“ Ou, Aberdeen-awa.” 

“ It’s mine ain calf-country. And what do they ca’ ye? ” 

“ They ca’ me John MacPherson.” 

“ My name’s Sutherland.” 

“ Eh, man ! It’s my ain mither’s name. Gie’s a grup o’ ye r 
ban’, Maister Sutherlan’. Eh, man ! ” he repeated, shaking 
Hugh’s hand with vehemence. 

“I have no doubt,” said Hugh, relapsing into English, 
“ that we are some cousins or other. It’s very lucky for me to 
find a relative, for I wanted some — advice.” 

He took care to say advice , which a Scotchman is generally 
prepared to bestow of his best. Had it been sixpence, the 
cousinship would have required elaborate proof, before the 
treaty could have made further progress. 

“I’m fully at your service, sir.” 

“ When will you be off duty ? ” 

“ At nine o’clock, preceesely.” 

“ Come to Number 13, Square, and ask for me. It’s 

not far.” 

“ Wi’ pleesir, sir, ’gin ’twar twice as far.” 

Hugh would not have ventured to ask him to his house on 
Sunday night, when no refreshments could be procured, had he 
not remembered a small pig ( Anglice , stone bottle) of real 
mountain dew, which he had carried with him when he went 
22 


338 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


to Arnstead, and which had lain unopened in one of hig 
boxes. 

Miss Talbot received her lodger with more show of pleasure 
than usual, for he came lapped in the odor of the deacon’s 
sanctity. But she was considerably alarmed, and beyond 
measure shocked, when the policeman called and requested tc 
see him. Sally had rushed in to her mistress in dismay. 

“ Please ’m, there’s a pleaceman wants Mr. Sutherland. 
Oh ! lor ’m ! ” 

“ Well, go and let Mr. Sutherland know, you stupid girl,” 
answered her mistress, trembling. 

“ Oh ! lor ’m ! ” was all Sally’s reply, as she vanished to 
bear the awful tidings to Hugh. 

“He can’t have been housebreaking already,” said Misa 
Talbot to herself, as she confessed afterwards. “ But it may 
be forgery or embezzlement. I told the poor deluded young 
man that the way of transgressors was hard.” 

“Please, sir, you’re wanted, sir,” said Sally, out of breath, 
and pale as her Sunday apron. 

“ Who wants me? ” asked Hugh. 

“Please, sir, the pleaceman, sir,” answered Sally, and 
burst into tears. 

Hugh was perfectly bewildered by the girl’s behavior, and 
said, in a tone of surprise : — 

“Well, show him up then.” 

“ Ooh ! sir,” said Sally, with a Plutonic sigh, and began 
to undo the hooks of her dress; “if you wouldn’t mind, sir, 
just put on my frock and apron, and take a jug in your hand, 
an’ the pleaceman ’ll never look at you. I’ll take care of 
everything till you come back, sir.” And again she burst into 
tears. 

Sally was a great reader of the “ Family Herald,” and 
knew that this was an orthodox plan of rescuing a prisoner. 
The kindness of her anxiety moderated the expression of 
Hugh’s amusement ; and, having convinced her that he was in 
no danger, he easily prevailed upon her to bring the policeman 
upstairs. 

Over a tumbler of toddy, the weaker ingredients of which 
were procured by Sally’s glad connivance, with a lingering 
idea of propitiation, and a gentle hint that 11 Missus mustn't 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


839 


know” — the two Scotchmen, seated at opposite corners of the 
fire, had a long chat. They began about the old country, and 
the places and people they both knew, and both didn’t know. 
If they had met on the shores of the central lake of Africa, 
they could scarcely have been more couihy together. At 
length Hugh referred to the object of his application to Mac- 
Pherson. 

“ What plan would you have me pursue, John, to get hold 
of a man in London?” 

“I could manage that for ye, sir. I ken maist the haill 
mengie o’ the detaictives.” 

“ But you see, unfortunately, I don’t wish, for particular rea- 
sons, that the police should have anything to do with it.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! hm ! hm ! I see brawly. Ye’ll be efter a 
stray sheep, nae doot? ” 

Hugh did not reply ; so leaving him to form any conclusion 
he pleased. 

“Ye see,” MacPherson continued, “it’s no that easy to a 
body that’s no up to the trade. Hae ye ony clue like, to set 
ye spierin’ upo’ ? ” 

“Not the least.” 

The man pondered a while. 

“I hae’t,” he exclaimed at last. “ What a fule I was no to 
think o’ that afore ! Gin’t be a puir bit yow-lammie like ’at 
ye’re efter, I’ll tell ye what ; there’s ae man, a countryman ’o 
our ain, an’ a gentleman forbye, that’ll do mair for ye in that 
way nor a’ the detaictives thegither ; an’ that’s Robert Fal- 
coner, Esquire. I ken him weel.” 

“But I don’t,” said Hugh. 

“ But I’ll introduce ye till ’im. He bides close at han’ 
here ; roun’ twa corners jist. An’ I’m thinkin’ he’ll be at 
hame the noo ; for I saw him gaein’ that get afore ye cam’ up 
to me. An’ the suner we gang, the better ; for he’s no aye to 
be gotten haud o’. Fegs ! he may be in Shoreditch or this.” 

“ But will he not consider it an intrusion? ” 

“ Na, na; there’s no fear o’ that. He’s ony man’s an’ ilka 
woman’s freen’, — so be he can do them a guid turn ; but he’s 
no for drinkin’ and daffin’ an’ that. Come awa’, Maister Suth- 
erland he’s yer verra man.” 

Thus urged, Hugh rose and accompanied the policeman. Ila 


340 


DaVID elginbrod. 


took him round rather more than two corners ; but within five 
minutes they stood at Mr. Falconer’s door. John rang. The 
door opened without visible service, and they ascended to the 
first floor, which was enclosed something after the Scctch 
fashion. Here a respectable-looking woman awaited their 
ascent. 

“ Is Mr. Falconer at horn’, mem? ” said Hugh’s guide. 

11 He is ; but I think he’s just going out again.” 

“ Will ye tell him, mem, ’at hoo John MacPherson, the po- 
liceman, would like sair to see him? ” 

“I will,” she answered; and went in, leaving them at the 
door. 

She returned in a moment, and, inviting them to enter, ush 
ered them into a large bare room, in which there was just light 
enough for Hugh to recognize, to his astonishment, the unmis- 
takable figure of the man whom he had met in Whitechapel, 
and whom he had afterwards seen apparently watching him 
from the gallery of the Olympic Theatre. 

“ How are you, MacPherson? ” said a deep, powerful voice, 
out of the gloom. 

“ Yerra weel, I thank ye, Mr. Falconer. Hoo are ye yer- 
sel’, sir ? ” 

“ Very weel too, thank you. Who is with you ? ” 

“ It’s a gentleman, sir, by the name o’ Mr. Sutherlan’, wha 
wants your help, sir, aboot somebody or ither ’at he’s enter- 
esstit in, wha’s disappeared.” 

Falconer advanced, and, bowing to Hugh, said, very gra- 
ciously : — 

“I shall be most happy to serve Mr. Sutherland, if in my 
power. Our friend MacPherson has rather too exalted an idea 
of my capabilities, however.” 

“ Weel, Maister Falconer, I only jist spier at yersel’, whether 
or no ye was ever dung wi’ onything ye took in han’.” 

Falconer made no reply to this. There was the story of a 
whole life in his silence — past and to come. 

He merely said : — 

“ You can leave the gentleman with me, then, John. I’ll 
take care of him.” 

“ No fear o’ that, sir. Deil a bit! though a ’ the police- 
men i’ Lonnou war efter ’im.” 


©AVID ELGINBROD. 


841 


“I’m much obliged to you for bringing him.” 

“The obligation’s mine, sir — an’ the gentleman’s. Good- 
nicht, sir. Good-nicht, Mr. Sutherlan’. Yell ken whaur to 
fin’ me gin ye want me. Yon’s my beat for anither fort- 
nicht.” 

“ And you know my quarters,” said Hugh, shaking him by 
the hand. “ 1 am greatly obliged to you.” 

“Not a bit, sir. Or gin ye war, ye sud be hertily wel- 
come.” 

“Bring candles, Mrs. Ashton,” Falconer called from the 
door. Then, turning to Hugh, “ Sit down, Mr. Sutherland,” 
he said, “if you can find a chair that is not illegally occupied 
already. Perhaps we had better wait for the candles. What 
a pleasant day we have had ! ” 

“Then you have been more pleasantly occupied than I 
have,” thought Hugh, to whose mind returned the images of 
the Appleditch family and its drawing-room, followed by the 
anticipation of the distasteful duties of the morrow. But he 
only said : — 

“ It has been a most pleasant day.” 

“ I spent it strangely,” said Falconer. 

Here the candles were brought in. 

The two men looked at each other full in the face. Hugh saw 
that he had not been in error. The same remarkable coun- 
tenance was before him. Falconer smiled. 

“We have met before,” said he. 

“We have,” said Hugh. 

“ I had a conviction we should be better acquainted ; but I 
did not expect it so soon.” 

“ Are you a clairvoyant , then? ” 

“ Not in the least.” 

« Or, perhaps, being a Scotchman, you have the second 
eight ? ” 

“I am hardly Celt enough for that. But I am a sort of 
a seer, after all, — from an instinct of the spiritual relations of 
things, I hope ; not in the least from the nervo-material side.” 

“ I think I understand you.” 

“ Are you at leisure ? ” 

' Entirely.” 

“Had we not better walk, then? I have to go as far a* 


842 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Somers Town, — no great way ; and we can talk as well walk- 
ing as sitting.” 

“ With pleasure,” answered Hugh, rising. 

“ Will you take anything before you go ? A glass of port ? 
It is the only wine I happen to have.” 

“ Not a drop, thank you. I seldom taste anything stronger 
than water.” 

“ I like that. But I like a glass of port too. Come 
then.” 

And Falconer rose — and a great rising it was; for, as 
I have said, he was two or three inches taller than Hugh, 
and much broader across the shoulders; and Hugh was no 
stripling now. He could not help thinking again of his old 
friend, David Elginbrod, to whom he had to look up to find 
the living eyes of him, just as now he looked up to find Fal- 
coner’s. But there was a great difference between those or- 
gans in the two men. David’s had been of an ordinary size, 
pure, keen blue, sparkling out of cerulean depths of peace and 
hope, full of lambent gleams when he was loving any one, and 
ever ready to be dimmed with the mists of rising emotion. Ail 
that Hugh could yet discover of Falconer’s eyes was, that they 
were large and black as night, and set so far back in his head 
that each gleamed out of its caverned arch like the reversed 
torch of the Greek Genius of Death just before going out in 
night. Either the frontal sinus was very large, or his observ- 
ant faculties were peculiarly developed. 

They went out, and walked for some distance in silence. 
Hugh ventured to say at length : — 

“ You said you had spent the day strangely ; may I ask 
how? ” 

“In a condemned cell in Newgate,” answered Falconer. 
“Iam not in the habit of going to such places, but the man 
wanted to see me, and I went.” 

As Falconer said no more, and as Hugh was afraid cf 
showing anything like vulgar curiosity, this thread of conver- 
sation broke. Nothing worth recording passed until they 
entered a narrow court in Somers Town. 

“ Are you afraid of infection ? ” Falconer said. 

“ Not in the least, if there be any reason for exposing my- 
self to it.” 


DAVID ELGINBECD. 


343 


“ That is right. And I need not ask if you are in good 
health.” 

“ I am in perfect health.” 

“ Then I need not mind asking you to wait for me till I 
come out of this house. There is typhus in it.” 

“ I will wait with pleasure. I will go with you if I can be 
of any use.” 

“ There is no occasion. It is not your business this time.” 

So saying, Falconer opened the door, and walked in. 

Said Hugh to himself, “ I must tell this man the whole 
story; and with it all my own.” 

In a few minutes Falconer rejoined him, looking solemn, but 
with a kind of relieved expression on his face. 

“ The poor fellow is gone,” said he. 

“Ah!” 

“ What a thing it must be, Mr. Sutherland, for a man to 
break out of the choke-damp of a typhus fever into the clear air 
of the life beyond ! ” 

“Yes,” said Hugh; adding, after a slight hesitation, “if 
he be at all prepared for the change.” 

“ Where a change belongs to the natural order of things,” 
said Falconer, “and arrives inevitably at some hour, there 
must always be more or less preparedness for it. Besides, I 
think a man is generally prepared for a breath of fresh air.” 

Hugh did not reply, for he felt that he did not fully com- 
prehend his new acquaintance. But he had a strong suspicion 
that it was because he moved in a higher region than himself. 

“If you will still accompany me,” resumed Falconer, who 
had not yet adverted to Hugh’s object in seeking his acquaint- 
ance, “you will, I think, be soon compelled to believe that, 
at whatever time death may arrive, or in whatever condition 
the man may be at the time, it comes as the best and only good 
that can at that moment reach him. We are, perhaps, too 
much in the habit of thinking of death as the culmination 
of disease, which, regarded only in itself, is an evil, and a 
terrible evil. But I think rather of death as the first pulse of 
the new strength, shaking itself free from the old mouldy 
remnants of earth -garments, that it may begin in freedqm.tlie 
new life that grows out of the old. The caterpillar dies into 
the butterfly. Who knows but disease may be the coming, the 


344 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


keener life, breaking into this, and beginning to destroy like 
fire the inferior modes or garments of the present ? And then 
disease would be but the sign of the salvation of fire ; of the 
acrony of the greater life to lift us to itself, out of that where- 
in we are failing and sinning. And so we praise the consum- 

ing fire of life.” # 

“ But surely all cannot fare alike in the new life. 

“ Far from it. According to the condition. But what 
would be hell to one will be quietness, and hope, and progress 
to another ; because he has left worse behind him, and in this 
the life asserts itself, and is. But perhaps you are not inter- 
ested in such subjects, Mr. Sutherland, and I weary you. 

“ If I have not been interested in them hitherto, I am ready 
to become so now. Let me go with you.” 

“ With pleasure.” 

As I have attempted to tell a great deal about Robert fal- 
coner and his pursuits elsewhere, I will not here relate the 
particulars of their walk through some of the most wretched 
jarts *f London. Suffice it to say that, if Hugh, as he 
walked home, was not yet prepared to receive and understand 
the half of what Falconer had said about death, and had not 
yet that faith in God that gives as perfect a peace for the future 
of our brothers and sisters, who, alas ! have as yet been fed 
with husks, as for that of ourselves, who have eaten bread of 
the finest of the wheat, and have been but a little thankful, — 
he yet felt at least that it was a blessed thing that these men 
and women would all die — must all die. That spectre from 
which men shrink, as if it would take from them the last shiv- 
ering remnant of existence, he turned to for some consolation 
even for them. He was prepared to believe that they could 
not be going to worse in the end, though some of the rich and 
respectable and educated might have to receive their evil things 
first in the other world ; and he was ready to understand that 
great saying of Schiller, — full of a faith evident enough to him 
who can look far enough into the saying : 

“ Death cannot be an evil, for it is universal. ’ 


DAVID ELGINBRGD. 


845 


CHAPTER LY. 

EUPHRA. 

Samson. Oh that torment should not be confined 
To the body’s wounds and sores, 

But must secret passage find 
To the inmost mind. 

Dire inflammation, which no cooling herb 
Or medicinal liquor can assuage, 

Nor breath of vernal air from snowy Alp. 

Sleep hath forsook and given me o’er 
To death’s benumbing opium as my only cure, 

Thence faintings, swoonings of despair, 

And sense of heavon’s desertion. 

Milton. — Samson Agonistes. 

Hitherto I have chiefly followed the history of my hero, if 
hero in any sense he can yet be called. Now I must leave 
him for a while, and take up the story of the rest of the few 
persons concerned in my tale. 

Lady Emily had gone to Madeira, and Mr. Arnold had 
followed. Mrs. Elton and Harry, and Margaret, of course, 
had gone to London. Euphra was left alone at Arnstead. 

A great alteration had taken place in this strange girl. The 
servants were positively afraid of her now, from the butler 
down to the kitchen-maid. She used to go into violent fits of 
passion, in which the mere flash of her eyes was overpowering. 
These outbreaks would be followed almost instantaneously by 
seasons of the deepest dejection, in which she would confine 
herself to her room for hours, or, lame as she was, wander 
about the house and the Ghost’s Walk, herself pale as a ghost, 
and looking meagre and wretched. 

Also, she became subject to frequent fainting-fits, the first 
of which took place the night before Hugh’s departure, after 
she had returned to the house from her interview with him in 
the Ghost’s Walk. She was evidently miserable. 

For this misery we know that there were veiy sufficient rea- 
sons, without taking into account the fact that she had no one 
to fascinate now. Her continued lameness, which her restless- 
ness aggravated, likewise gave her great cause for anxiety. 
But I presume that, even during the early part of her con* 


846 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


finement, her mind had been thrown back upon itself, in that 
consciousness which often arises in loneliness and suffering, 
and that even then she had begun to feel that her own self 
was a worse tyrant than the count, and made her a more 
wretched slave than any exercise of his unlawful power could 
make her. 

Some natures will endure an immense amount of misery be- 
fore they feel compelled to look there for help whence all help 
and healing comes. They cannot believe that there is verily 
an unseen, mysterious power, till the world and all that is in 
it has vanished in the smoke of despair ; till cause and effect is 
nothing to the intellect, and possible glories have faded from 
the imagination ; then, deprived of all that made life pleasant or 
hopeful, the immortal essence, lonely and wretched and unablo 
to cease, looks up with its now unfettered and wakened instinct 
to the source of its own life, — to the possible God who, not- 
withstanding all the improbabilities of his existence, may yet 
perhaps be, and may yet perhaps hear his wretched creature 
that calls. In this loneliness of despair, life must find The 
Life ; for joy is gone, and life is all that is left ; it is com- 
pelled to seek its source, its root, its eternal life. This alone 
remains as a possible thing. Strange condition of despair into 
which the Spirit of God drives a man, — a condition in which 
the Best alone is the Possible ! 

Other simpler natures look up at once. Even before the 
first pang has passed away, as by a holy instinct of celestial 
childhood, they lift their eyes to the heavens whence cometh 
their aid. Of this class Euphra was not. She belonged to 
the former. And yet even she had begun to look upward, for 
the waters had closed above her head. She betook herself to 
the one man of whom she had heard as knowing about God. 
She wrote, but no answer came. Days and days passed away, 
and there was no reply. 

“ Ah ! just so ! ” she said, in bitterness. “ And if I cried 
to God forever, I should hear no word of reply. If he be, he 
sits apart, and leaves the weak to be the prey of the bad. 
What cares he?” 

Yet, as she spoke, she rose, and, by a sudden impulse, 
threw herself on the floor, and cried for the first time : — 

“ 0 God, help me ! ” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


347 


Was there voice or hearing ? 

She rose at least with a little hope, and with the feeling that 
if she could cry to him, it might be that he could listen to her. 
It seemed natural to pray; it seemed to come of itself : that 
could not be except it was first natural for God to hear. The 
foundation of her own action must be in him who made her ; 
for her call could be only a response after all. 

The time passed wearily by. Dim, slow November days 
came on, with the fall of the last brown shred of those clouds 
of living green that had floated betwixt earth and heaven. 
Through the bare boughs of the overarching avenue of the 
Ghost’s Walk, themselves living skeletons, she could now look 
straight up to the blue sky, which had been there all the time. 
And she had begun to look up to a higher heaven, through the 
bare skeleton shapes of life ; for the foliage of joy had wholly 
vanished, — shall we say in order that the children of the 
spring might come ? — certainly in order first that the blue 
sky of a deeper peace might reflect itself in the hitherto dark- 
ened waters of her soul. 

Perhaps some of my readers may think that she had enough 
to repent of to keep her from weariness. She had plenty to 
repent of, no doubt; but repentance, between the paroxysms 
of its bitterness, is a very dreary and November-like state of 
the spiritual weather. For its foggy mornings and cheerless 
noons cannot believe in the sun of spring, soon to ripen into 
the sun of summer ; and its best time is the night, that shuts 
out the world and weeps its fill of slow tears. But she was 
not altogether so blameworthy as she may have appeared. Her 
affectations had not been altogether false. She valued, and in 
a measure possessed, the feelings for which she sought credit. 
She had a genuine enjoyment of nature, though after a sensu- 
ous, Keats-like fashion, not a Wordsworthian. It was the body, 
rather than the soul, of nature, that she loved, — its beauty 
rather than its truth. Had her love of nature been of the 
deepest, she would have turned aside to conceal her emotions 
rather than have held them up as allurements in the eyes of her 
companion. But as no body and no beauty can exist without 
soul and truth, she who loves the former must at least be capa- 
ble of loving the deeper essence to which they owe their very 
existence. 


348 


DAVID ELGINBROD, 


This view of her character is borne out by her love of music 
and her liking for Hugh. Both were genuine. Had the lat- 
ter been either more or less genuine than it was, the task of 
fascination would have been more difficult, and it3 success less 
complete. Whether her own feelings became further involved 
than she had calculated upon, I cannot tell ; but surely it says 
something for her. in any case, that she desired to retain Hugh 
as her friend, instead of hating him because he had been her 
lover. 

How glad she would have been of Harry now ! The days 
crawled one after the other like weary snakes. She tried to 
read the New Testament : it was to her like a mouldy chamber 
of worm-eaten parchments, whose windows had not been opened 
to the sun or the wind for centuries ; and in which the dust of 
the decaying leaves choked the few beams that found their way 
through the age-blinded panes. 

This state of things could not have lasted long ; for Euphra 
would have died. It lasted, however, until she felt that she 
had been leading a false, worthless life ; that she had been cast- 
ing from her every day the few remaining fragments of truth 
and reality that yet kept her nature from falling in a heap of 
helpless ruin ; that she had never been a true friend to any 
one ; that she was of no value, — fit for no one’s admiration, 
no one’s love. She must leave her former self, like a dead 
body, behind her, and rise into a purer air of life and reality, 
else she would perish with that everlasting death which is the 
disease and corruption of the soul itself. 

To those who know anything of such experiences, it will not 
be surprising that such feelings as these should be alternated 
with fierce bursts of passion. The old self then started up with 
feverish energy, and writhed for life. Never any one tried to 
be better, without, for a time, seeming to himself, perhaps to 
others, to be worse. For the suffering of the spirit weakens 
the brain itself, and the whole physical nature groans under it ; 
while the energy spent in the effort to awake and arise from 
the dust, leaves the regions previously guarded by prudence 
naked to the wild inroads of the sudden destroying impulses 
born of suffering, self-sickness, and hatred. As in the deliri- 
ous patient, they would dash to the earth whatever comes first 
within reach, as if the thing first perceived, and so (by percep- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


349 


tion alone) brought into contact with the suffering, were the 
cause of all the distress. 

One day a letter arrived for her. She had had no letter 
from any one for weeks. Yet, when she saw the direction, she 
flung it from her. It was from Mrs. Elton, whom she disliked, 
because she found her utterly uninteresting and very stupid. 

Poor Mrs. Elton laid no claim to the contraries of these ep- 
ithets. But in proportion as she abjured thought she claimed 
speech, both by word of mouth and by letter. Why not? 
There was nothing in it. She considered reason as an awful 
enemy to the soul, and obnoxious to God, especially when ap- 
plied to find out what he means when he addresses us as rea- 
sonable creatures. But speech ? There was no harm in that. 
Perhaps it was some latent conviction that this power of speech 
was the chief distinction between herself and the lower animals 
that made her use it so freely, arid at the same time open her 
purse so liberally to the Hospital for Orphan Dogs and Cats. 
Had it not been for her own dire necessity, the fact that Mrs. 
Elton was religious would have been enough to convince Euphra 
that there could not possibly be anything in religion. 

The letter lay unopened till next day, — a fact easy to ac- 
count for, improbable as it may seem ; for, besides writing as 
largely as she talked, and less amusingly, because more cor- 
rectly, Mrs. Elton wrote such an indistinct, though punctil- 
iously neat, hand, that the reading of a letter of hers involved 
no small amount of labor. But the sun shining out next 
morning, Euphra took courage to read it while drinking her 
coffee, although she could not expect to make that ceremony 
more pleasant thereby. It contained an invitation to visit Mrs. 
Elton at her house in Street, Hyde Park, with the assur- 

ance that, now that everything was arranged, they had plenty 
of room for her. Mr3. Elton was sure she must be lonely at 
Arnstead; and Mrs. Horton could, no doubt, be trusted — and 
so on. 

Had this letter arrived a few weeks earlier, Euphra would 
have infused into her answer a skilful concoction of delicate 
contempt; not for the amusement of knowing that Mrs. Elton 
would never discover a trace of it, but simply for a relief to 
her own dislike. Now, she would have written a plain letter, 
containing as brief and as true an excuse as she could find, had 


350 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


it not been that, enclosed in Mrs . Elton’s note she found an- 
other, which ran thus : — 


“ Dear Euphra : — Do come and see us. I do not like London at all 
without you. There are no happy days here like those we had at Arn- 
stead with Mr. Sutherland. Mrs. Elton and Margaret are very kind to 
me. But I wish you would come. Do, do, do. Please do. 

“Your affectionate cousin, 

“Harry Arnold.” 


“ The dear boy ! ” said Euphra, with a gush of pure and 
grateful affection ; u I will go and see him.” 

Harry had begun to work with his masters, and was doing 
his best, which was very good. If his heart was not so much 
in it as when he was studying with his big brother, he gained 
a great benefit from the increase of exercise to his will, in the 
doing of what was less pleasant. Ever since Hugh had given 
his faculties a right direction, and aided him by healthful, 
manly sympathy, he had been making up for the period during 
which childhood had been protracted into boyhood ; and now 
he was making rapid progress. 

When Euphra arrived, Harry rushed to the hall to meet 
her. She took him in her arms, and burst into tears. Her 
tears drew forth his. He stroked her pale face, and said : 

“ Dear Euphra, how ill you look ! ” 

“ I shall soon be better now, Harry.” 

“ I was afraid you did not love me, Euphra; but now I am 
sure you do.” 

“ Indeed I do. I am very sorry for everything that mad 
you think I did not love you.” 

“ No, no. It was all my fancy. Now we shall be verj 

happy.” 

And so Harry was. And Euphra, through means of 
Harry, began to gain a little of what is better than most kinds 
of happiness, because it is nearest to the best happiness, I 
mean peace. This foretaste of rest came to her from the 
devotedness with which she now applied herself to aid the 
intellect, which she had unconsciously repressed and stuntec 
before. She took Harry’s books when he had gone to bed, 
and read over all his lessons, that she might be able to assist 
him in preparing them ; venturing thus into some regions of 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


351 


labor into which ladies are too seldom conducted by those who 
instruct them. This produced in her quite new experiences. 
Une ot these was, that in proportion as she labored for Harry 
hope grew for herself. It was likewise of the greatest imme- 
aiate benefit that the intervals of thought, instead of lying 
vacant to melancholy, or the vapors that sprung from the 
loregoing strife of the spiritual elements, should be occupied 
by healthy mental exercise. 

. Still > however, she was subject to great vicissitudes of feel- 
mg. A kind of peevishness, to which she had formerly been 
a stranger, was but too ready to appear, even when she was 
most anxious, m her converse with Harry, to behave well to 
him. But the pure forgiveness of the boy was wonderful. 
Instead of plaguing himself to find out the cause of her 
behavior, or resenting it in the least, he only labored, by 
increased attention and submission, to remove it ; and seemed 
perfectly satisfied when it was followed by a kind word, which 
to him was repentance, apology, amends, and betterment, all 
m one. When he had thus driven away the evil spirit, there 
was Euphra her own self. So perfectly did she see, and so 
thoroughly appreciate, this kindness and love of Harry, that 
he began to look to her like an angel of forgiveness, come to 
live a boy’s life, that he might do an angel s work. 

Her health continued very poor. She suffered constantly 
from more or less headache, and at times from faintings. But 
she had not for some time discovered any signs of somnambu- 
lism. 

Of this peculiarity her friends were entirely ignorant. The 
occasions, indeed, on which it had manifested itself to an 
excessive degree had been but few. 


352 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

THE NEW PUPILS. 


Think you a little din can daunt mine ews? 

Have I not in my time heard lions roar f 

And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, 

That gives not half so great a blow to hear, 

As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire ? 

Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs. 

Taming of the Shrew . 

Dttring the whole of his first interview with Falconer, 
which lasted so long that he had been glad to make a bed of 
Falconer's sofa, Hugh never once referred to the object for 
which he had accepted MacPherson’s proffered introduction; 
nor did Falconer ask him any questions. Hugh was too much 
interested and saddened by the scenes through which Falconer 
led him, not to shrink from speaking of anything less impor- 
tant; and with Falconer it was a rule, a principle almost, 
never to expedite utterance of any sort. 

In the morning, feeling a little good-natured anxiety as to 
his landlady’s reception of him, Hugh made some allusion to 
it, as he sat at his new friend’s breakfast-table. 

Falconer said : — 

“ What is your landlady’s name? ” 

“ Miss Talbot.” 

“ Oh, little Miss Talbot? You are in good quarters, — W 
good to lose, I can tell you. Just say to Miss Talbot tk»t 
you were with me.” 

11 You know her then?” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

H You seem to know everybody.” 

u If I have spoken to a person once, I never forget him.” 

u That seems to me very strange.” 

“ It is simple enough. The secret of it is, that, as far as I 
can help it, I never have any merely business relations with 
any one. I try always not to forget that there is a deeper 
relation between us. I commonly succeed worst in a drawing- 
room ; yet even there, for the time we are together, I try to 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


853 


recognize the present humanity, however much distorted or 
mncealed. The consequence is, I never forget anybody ; and 
I generally find that others remember me, — at least those with 
whom I have had any real relations, springing from my need 
or from theirs. The man who mends a broken chair for you, 
or a rent in your coat, renders you a human service ; and, in 
virtue of that, comes nearer to your inner self than nine- 
tenths of the ladies and gentlemen, whom you meet only in 
what is called society, are likely to do.” 

“ But do you not find it awkward sometimes? ” 

u Not in the least. I am never ashamed of knowing any 
one ; and, as I never assume a familiarity that does not exist, I 
never find it assumed towards me.” 

Hugh found the advantage of Falconer’s sociology when he 
mentioned to Miss Talbot that he had been his guest that 
night. 

“ You should have sent us word, Mr. Sutherland,” was all 
Miss Talbot’s reply. 

“I could not do so before you must have been all in bed. 
I was sorry, but I could hardly help it.” 

Miss Talbot turned away into the kitchen. The only other 
ndication of her feeling in the matter was, that she sent him 
up a cup of delicious chocolate for his lunch, before he set 
out for Mr. Appleditch’s, where she had heard at the shop 
that he was going. 

My reader must not be left to fear that I am about to give a 
detailed account of Hugh’s plans with these unpleasant little 
immortals, whose earthly nature sprang from a pair whose 
religion consisted chiefly in negations, and whose main duty 
seemed to be to make money in small sums, and spend it in 
smaller. When he arrived at Buccleuch Crescent, he was 
shown into the dining-room, into which the boys were sepa- 
rately dragged, to receive the first instalment of the mental 
legacy left them by their ancestors. But the legacy-duty 
was so heavy that they would gladly have declined paying it. 
even with the loss of the legacy itself; and Hugh was dis- 
mayed at the impossibility of interesting them in anything. 
He tried telling them stories even, without success. They 
staled at him, it is true ; but whether there was more specula- 
tion in the open mouths, or in the fishy, overfed eyes, he found 

23 


354 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


it impossible to determine. He could not help feeling the 
riddle of Providence in regard to the birth of these, much 
harder to read than that involved in the case of some of the 
little thieves whose acquaintance he had made, when with 
Falconer, the evening before. But he did his best; and before 
the time had expired, — two hours, namely, — he had found 
out, to his satisfaction, that the elder had a turn for sums, and 
the younger for drawing. So he made use of these predilec- 
tions to bribe them to the exercise of their intellect upon less- 
favored branches of human accomplishment. He found the 
plan operate as well as it could have been expected to operate 
upon such material. 

But one or two little incidents, relating to his intercourse 
with Mrs. Appleditch, I must not omit. Though a mother’s 
love is more ready to purify itself than most other loves, yet 
there is a class of mothers whose love is only an extended, 
scarcely an expanded, selfishness. Mrs. Appleditch did not in 
the least love her children because they were children, and 
children committed to her care by the Father of all children ; 
but she loved them dearly because they were her children. 

One day Hugh gave Master Appleditch a smart slap across 
the fingers, as the ultimate resource. The child screamed as 
he well knew how. His mother burst into the room. 

“ Johnny, hold your tongue ! ” 

“ Teacher’s been and hurt me.” 

11 Hold your tongue, I say. My head’s like to split. Get 
out of the room, you little ruffian ! ” 

She seized him by the shoulders, and turned him out, ad- 
ministering a box on his ear that made the room ring. Then 
turning to Hugh : — 

“ Mr. Sutherland, how dare you strike my child?” she 
demanded. 

“He required it, Mrs. Appleditch. I did him no harm 
He will mind what I say another time.” 

“I will not have him touched. It’s disgraceful. To strike 
a child ! ” 

She belonged to that class of humane parents who consider 
it cruel to inflict any corporal suffering upon children, except 
they do it themselves, and in a passion. Johnnie behaved 
better after this, however ; and the only revenge Mrs. Apple- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


855 


ditch took for this interference with the dignity of her eldest- 
born, and, consequently, with her own as his mother, was, 
that — with the view, probably, of impressing upon Hugh a 
due sense of the menial position he occupied in her family — 
she always paid him his fee of one shilling and sixpence every 
day before he left the house. Once or twice she contrived 
accidentally that the sixpence should be in coppers. Hugh 
was too much of a philosopher, however, to mind this from 
such a woman. I am afraid he rather enjoyed her spite ; for 
he felt it did not touch him, seeing it could not be less honora- 
ble to be paid by the day than by the quarter or by the year. 
Certainly the coppers were an annoyance ; but if the coppers 
could be carried, the annoyance could be borne. The real 
disgust in the affair was, that he had to meet and speak with 
a woman every day, for whom he could feel nothing but con- 
tempt and aversion. Hugh was not yet able to mingle with 
these feelings any of the leaven of that charity which they 
need most of all who are contemptible in the eyes of their 
fellows. Contempt is murder committed by the intellect, as 
hatred is murder committed by the heart. Charity, having 
life in itself, is the opposite and destroyer of contempt as well 
as of hatred. 

After this, nothing went amiss for some time. But it was 
very dreary work to teach such boys, — for the younger came 
in for the odd sixpence. Slow, stupid resistance appeared to 
be the only principle of their behavior towards him. They 
scorned the man whom their mother despised and valued for 
the self-same reason, namely, that he was cheap. They would 
have defied him had they dared, but he managed to establish 
an authority over them — and to increase it. Still, he could 
not rouse them to any real interest in their studies. Indeed, 
they were as near being little beasts as it was possible for 
children to be. Their eyes grew dull at a story-book, but 
greedily bright at the sight of bulls’ eyes or toffee. It was the 
same day after day, till he was sick of it. No doubt they 
made some progress, but it was scarcely perceptible to him. 
Through fog and fair, through frost and snow, through wind 
and rain, he trudged to that wretched house. No one minds 
the weather, — no young Scotchman, at least, — where any 
pleasure waits the close of the struggle ; to fight his way to 


356 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


misery was more than hi could well endure. But his deliver- 
ance was nearer than he expected. It was not to come just 
yet, however. 

All went on with frightful sameness, till sundry doubtful 
symptoms of an alteration in the personal appearance of Hugh 
having accumulated at last into a mass of evidence, forced the 
conviction upon the mind of the grocer’s wife that her tutor 
was actually growing a beard. Could she believe her eyes ? 
She said she could not. But she acted on their testimony 
notwithstanding ; and one day, suddenly addressing Hugh, said, 
in her usual cold, thin, cutting fashion of speech : — 

“ Mr. Sutherland, I am astonished and grieved that you, a 
teacher of babes, who should set an example to them, should 
disguise yourself in such an outlandish figure.” 

“ What do you mean, Mrs. Appleditch?” asked Hugh, who, 
though he had made up his mind to follow the example of 
Falconer, yet felt uncomfortable enough, during the transition 
period, to know quite well what she meant. 

“ What do I mean, sir? It is a shame for a man to let his 
beard grow like a monkey.” 

“ But a monkey hasn’t a beard,” retorted Hugh, laughing. 

“ Man is the only animal who has one.” 

This assertion, if not quite correct, was approximately so, 
and went much nearer the truth than Mrs. Appleditch’s 
argument. 

“It’s no joking matter, Mr. Sutherland, with my two 
darlings growing up to be ministers of the gospel.” 

“ What ! both of them ? ” thought Hugh. u Good heavens ! ” 
But he said : — 

“ Well, but you know, Mrs. Appleditch, the apostles 
themselves wore beards.” 

“ Yes, when they were Jews. But who would have believed 
them if they had preached the gospel like old clothesraen? 
No, no, Mr. Sutherland, I see through all that. My own 
uncle was a preacher of the word. As soon as the apostles 
became Christians, they shaved. It was the sign of Christi- 
anity. The Apostle Paul himself says that cleanliness is next 
to godliness.” 

Hugh restrained his laughter, and shifted his ground 

“ But there is nothing dirty about them,” he said. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


357 


t( Not dirty? Now really, Mr. Sutherland, you provoko 
me. Nothing dirty in long hair all round your mouth, and 
going into it every spoonful you take ? ” 

“ But it can be kept properly trimmed, you know.” 

“ But who’s to trust you to do that? No, no, Mr. 
Sutherland ; you must not make a guy of yourself.” 

Hugh laughed, and said nothing. Of course his beard 
would go on growing, for he could not help it. 

So did Mrs. Appleditch’s wrath. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

CONSULTATIONS. 


Wo keine Gotter sind, walten Gespenster. 

Novalis. — Die Christ enhat 

Where gods are not, spectres rule. 

Ein Charakter ist ein vollkommen gebildeter Wille. 

Novalis. — Moralische Ansichten. 
A character is a perfectly formed will. 


It was not long before Hugh repeated his visit to Falconer. 
He was not at home. He went again and again, but still 
failed in finding him. The day after the third failure, how- 
ever, he received a note from Falconer, mentioning an hour at 
which he would be at home on the following evening. Hugh 
went. Falconer was waiting for him. 

“I am very sorry. I am out so much,” said Falconer. 

“I ought to have taken the opportunity when I had it,” 
replied Hugh. “I want to ask your help. May I begin at 
the beginning, and tell you all the story? or must I epitomize 
and curtail it?” 

“Be as diffuse as you please. I shall understand the thing 
the better.” 

So Hugh began, and told the whole of his history, in as far 
as it bore upon the story of the crystal. He ended with the 
words : — 

“ I trust, Mr. Falconer, you will not think that it is from a 
love of talking that I have said so much about this affair.” 


358 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ Certainly not. It is a remarkable story. I will think 
what can be done. Meantime I will keep my eyes and ears 
open. I may find the fellow. Tell me what he is like.” 

Hugh gave as minute a description of the count as he could. 

“I think I see the man,” said Falconei “I am pretty 
sure I shall recognize him.” 

“ Have you any idea what he could want with the ring? ” 

“It is one of the curious coincidences which are always 
happening,” answered Falconer, “that a newspaper of thk 
very day would have enabled me, without any previous knowl- 
edge of similar facts, to give a probably correct suggestion as 
to his object. But you can judge for yourself.” 

So saying, Falconer went to a side-table, heaped up with 
books and papers, maps, and instruments of various kinds, ap- 
parently in triumphant confusion. Without a moment’s 
hesitation, notwithstanding, he selected the paper he wanted, 
and handed it to Hugh, who read in it a letter to the editor, 
of which the following is a portion : — 

“I have for over thirty years been in the habit of investigating 
the question by means of crystals. And since 18 — , I have 
possessed the celebrated crystal, once belonging to Lady 
Blessington, in which very many persons, both children and 
adults, have seen visions of the spirits of the deceased, or of 
beings claiming to be such, and of numerous angels and other 
beings of the spiritual world. These have in all cases supported 
the purest and most liberal Christianity. The faculty of seeing 
in the crystal I have found to exist in about one person in ten 
among adults, and in nearly nine in every ten among children; 
many of whom appear to lose the faculty as they grow to adult 
age, unless they practise it continually.” 

“Is it possible,” said Hugh, pausing, “that this can be a 
veritable paper of to-day? Are there people to believe such 
things? ” 

“There are more fools in che world, Mr. Sutherland, than 
there are crystals in its mountains.” 

Hugh resumed his reading. He came at length to this 
passage : — 

“ The spirits — which I feel certain they are — which appear, 
do not hesitate to inform us on all possible subjects which may 
tend to improve our morals, and confirm our faith in the 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


359 


Christian doctrines The character they give of the 

class of spirits who are in the habit of communicating with 
mortals by rapping and such proceedings, is such that it behoves 
nil Christian people to be on their guard against error and 
delusion through their means.” 

Hugh had read this passage aloud. 

“Is not that a comfort, now, Mr. Sutherland?” said 
Falconer. “For in all the reports which I have seen of the 
religious instruction communicated in that highly articulate 
manner, Calvinism, high and low, has predominated. I 
strongly suspect the crystal phantoms of Arminianism, though. 
Fancy the old disputes of infant Christendom perpetuated 
amongst the paltry ghosts of another realm ! ” 

“ But,” said Hugh, “ I do not quite see how this is to help 
me as to the count’s object in securing the ring ; for certainly, 
however deficient he may be in such knowledge, he is not 
likely to have committed the theft for the sake of instruction 
in the doctrines of the sects.” 

“No. But such a crystal might be put to other, not to say 
better, uses. Besides, Lady Blessington’s crystal might be a 
pious crystal ; and the other which belonged to Lady — ” 

“ Lady Euphrasia.” 

“ To Lady Euphrasia, might be a worldly crystal altogether. 
This might reveal demons and their counsels, while that was 
haunted by theological angels and evangelical ghosts.” 

1 1 Ah ! I see. I should have thought, however, that the 
count had been too much of a man of the world to believe such 
things.” 

“ He might find his account in it, notwithstanding. But no 
amount of world-wisdom can set a man above the inroads of 
superstition. In fact, there is but one thing that can free a 
man from superstition, and that is belief. All history proves 
it. The most sceptical have ever been the most credulous. 
This is one of the best arguments for the existence of something 
to believe.” 

“ You remind me of a passage in my story which I omitted, 
as irrelevant to the matter in hand.” 

“ Do let me have it. It cannot fail to interest me.” 

Hugh gave a complete account of the experiments they had 
made with the careering plate. Now the writing of the name 


860 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


of “David Elginbrod” was the most remarkable phenomenon 
of the whole, and Hugh was compelled, in responding to the 
natural interest of Falconer, to give a description of David. 
This led to a sketch of his own sojourn at Turriepuffit ; in 
which the character of David came out far more plainly than 
it could have come out in any description. When he had 
finished, Falconer broke out, as if he had been hitherto 
restraining his wrath with difficulty: — 

“And that was the man the creatures dared to personate! 
I hate the whole thing, Sutherland. It is full of impudence 
and irreverence. Perhaps the wretched beings may want 
another thousand years’ damnation, because of the injury done 
to their character by the homage of men who ought to know 
better.” 

“ I do not quite understand you.” 

“I mean, that you ought to believe as easily that such a 
man as you describe is laughing with the devil and his angels, 
as that he wrote a copy at the order of a charlatan, or worse.” 

u But it could hardly be deception.” 

“Not deception? A man like him could not get through 
them without being recognized.” 

“ I don’t understand you. By whom ? ” 

“ By swarms of low, miserable creatures that so lament the 
loss of their beggarly bodies that they would brood upon them 
in the shape of flesh-flies, rather than forsake the putrefying 
remnants. After that, chair, or table, or anything that they 
can come into contact with, possesses quite sufficient organiza- 
tion for such. Don’t you remember that once, rather than 
have nobody to go into, they crept into the very swine? 
There was a fine passion for self-embodiment and sympathy ! 
But the swine themselves could not stand it, and preferred 
drowning.” 

“ Then you do think there was something supernatural in 
it?” 

“ Nothing in the least. It required no supernatural powers 
to be aware that a great man was dead, and that you had 
known him well. It annoys me, Sutherland, that able men, 
ay, and good men too, should consult with ghosts whose only 
possible superiority consists in their being out of the body. 
Why should they be the wiser for that? I should as soon 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


861 


expect to gain wisdom by taking off my clothes, and to lose 
it by getting into bed ; or to rise into the seventh heaven of 
spirituality by having my hair cut. An impudent forgery 
of that good man’s name ! If I were you, Sutherland, I 
would have nothing to do with such a low set. They are the 
canaille of the other world. It’s of no use to lay hold on 
their skirts, for they can’t fly. They’re just like the vultures, 
— easy to catch, because they’re full of garbage. I doubt if 
they have more intellect left than just enough to lie with. I 
have been compelled to think a good deal about these things of 
late.” 

Falconer put a good many questions to Hugh, about Euphra 
and her relation to the count ; and such was the confidence 
with which he had inspired him, that Hugh felt at perfect lib- 
erty to answer them all fully, not avoiding even the exposure 
of his own feelings, where that was involved by the story. 

“Now,” said Falconer, “I have material out of which to 
construct a theory. The count is at present like a law of 
nature concerning which a prudent question is the first half of 
the answer, as Lord Bacon says ; and you can put no question 
without having first formed a theory, however slight or tempo- 
rary ; for otherwise no question will suggest itself. But, in 
the mean time, as I said before, I will make inquiry, upon the 
theory that he is somewhere in London, although I doubt it.” 

“ Then I will not occupy your time any longer at present,” 
said Hugh. “ Could you say, without fettering yourself in 
the least, when I might be able to see you again ? ” 

“ Let me see. I will make an appointment with you next 
Sunday ; here, at ten o’clock in the morning. Make a note 
of it.” 

“ There is no fear of my forgetting it. My consolations are 
not so numeious that I can afford to forget my sole pleasure. 
You, I should think, have more need to make a note of it than 
I. though I am quite willing to be forgotten, if necessary.” 

“ I never forget my engagements,” said Falconer. 

They parted, and Hugh went home to his novel. 


862 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER LVIIL 

QUESTIONS AND DREAMS. 


On a certain time the Lady St. Mary had commanded the Lord Jesus to fetch hei 
some water out of the well. And when he had gone to fetch the water, the pitcher, 
when it was brought up full, brake. But Jesus, spreading his mantle, gathered up 
the water again, and brought it in that to his mother . — The First ( apochryphal ) 
Gospel of the Infancy of J esus Christ. 


Mrs. Elton read prayers morning and evening, — very 
elaborate compositions, which would have instructed the apos- 
tles themselves in many things they had never anticipated. 
But, unfortunately, Mrs. Elton must likewise read certain 
remarks, in the form of a homily, intended to impress the 
Scripture which preceded it upon the minds of the listeners. 
Between the mortar of the homilist’s faith, and the dull blows 
of the pestle of his arrogance, the fair form of truth was 
ground into the powder of pious small talk. This result was 
not pleasant either to Harry or to Euphra. Euphra, with her 
life threatening to go to ruin about her, was crying out for 
Him who made the soul of man, 11 who loved us into being,’ 7 * 
and who alone can review the life of his children ; and in such 
words as those a scoffing demon seemed to mock at her needs. 
Harry had the natural dislike of all childlike natures to 
everything formal, exclusive, and unjust. But, having re- 
ceived nothing of what is commonly called a religious train- 
ing , this advantage resulted from his new experiences in Mrs. 
Elton’s family, that a good direction was given to his thoughts 
by the dislike which he felt to such utterances. More than 
thi3 : a horror fell upon him lest these things should be true ; 
lest the mighty All of nature should be only a mechanism, 
without expression and without beauty; lest the God who 
made us should be like us only in this, that he, too, was selfish 
and mean and proud ; lest his ideas should resemble those that 
inhabit the brain of a retired money-maker, or of an arbitrary 
monarch claiming a divine right, instead of towering, as the 
heavens over the earth, above the loftiest moods of highest 
poet, most generous child, or most devoted mother. I do not 


* Goldsmith; twice, in the “Citizen of the World.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


363 


paean that these thoughts took these shapes in Harry’s mind; 
but that his feelings were such as might have been condensed 
into such thoughts, had his intellect been more mature. 

One morning, the passage of Scripture which Mrs. Elton 
read was the story of the young man who came to Jesus, and 
went away sorrowful, because the Lord thought so well of him, 
and loved him so heartily, that he wanted to set him free from 
his riches. A great portion of the homily was occupied with 
proving that the evangelist could not possibly mean that Jesus 
loved the young man in any pregnant sense of the word ; but 
merely meant that J esus 11 felt kindly disposed towards him ; ” 
felt a poor little human interest in him, in fact, and did not 
love him divinely at all. 

Harry’s face was in a flame all the time she was reading. 
When the service was over — and a bond service it was for 
Euphra and him — they left the room together. As soon as 
the door was shut, he burst out : — 

“I say, Euphra! Wasn’t that a shame? They would 
have Jesus as bad as themselves. We shall have somebody 
writing a book next to prove that after all Jesus was a 
Pharisee.” 

“ Nevermind,” said the heart-sore, sceptical Euphra, “ never 
mind, Harry; it’s all nonsense.” 

“ No, it's not all nonsense. Jesus did love the young man. 
I believe the story itself before all the Doctors of Divinity in 
the world. He loves all of us, he does — with all his heart 
too.” 

“ I hope so,” was all she could reply ; but she was comforted 
by Harry’s 'vehement confession of faith, 

Euphra was so far softened, or perhaps weakened, by suffer- 
ing, that she yielded many things which would have seemed 
impossible before. One of these was that she went to church 
with Mrs. Elton, where that lady hoped she would get good 
to her soul. Harry, of course, was not left behind. The 
church she frequented was a fashionable one, with a vicar 
more fashionable still ; for, had he left that church, more than 
half his congregation, which consisted mostly of ladies, would 
have left it also, and followed him to the ends of London. He 
was a middle-aged man, with a rubicund countenance, and a 
gentle familiarity of manner, that was exceedingly pleasing to 


364 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


the fashionable sheep, who, conscious that they had wandered 
from the fold, were waiting with exemplary patience for the 
barouches and mail-phaetons of the skies to carry them back 
without the trouble of walking. Alas for them ! they have to 
learn that the chariots of heaven are chariots of fire. 

The Sunday morning following the conversation I have just 
recorded, the clergyman’s sermon was devoted to the illustra- 
tion of the greatness and condescension of the Saviour. After a 
certain amount of tame excitement expended upon the consider- 
ation of his power and kingdom, one passage was wound up in 
this fashion : — 

“ Yes, my friends, even her most gracious Majesty, Queen 
Victoria, the ruler over millions diverse in speech and in hue, 
to whom we all look up with humble submission, and whom 
we acknowledge as our sovereign lady, — even she, great as she 
is, adds by her homage a jewel to his crown ; and, hailing him 
as her Lord, bows and renders him worship ! Yet this is he 
who comes down to visit, yea, dwells with his own elect, his 
chosen ones, whom he has led back to the fold of his grace.” 

For some reason, known to himself, Falconer had taken 
Hugh, who had gone to him according to appointment that 
morning, to this same church. As they came out, Hugh 
said : — 

“ Mr. is quite proud of the honor done his Master by 

the queen.” 

“ I do not think,” answered Falconer, “that his Master 
will think so much of it ; for he once had his feet washed by a 
woman that was a sinner.” 

The homily which Mrs. Elton read at prayers that evening, 
bore upon the same subject nominally as the chapter that 
preceded it, — that of election : a doctrine which in the Bible 
asserts the fact of God’s choosing certain persons for the specific 
purpose of receiving first, and so communicating the gifts of 
his grace to the whole world ; but which, in the homily referred 
to, was taken to mean the choice of certain persons for ultimate 
salvation, to the exclusion of the rest. They were sitting in 
silence after the close, when Harry started up suddenly, 
saying, “ I don’t want God to love me, if he does not love 
everybody; ” and, bursting into tears, hurried out of the room. 
Mis. Elton was awfully shocked at his wickedness. Euphra 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


865 


hastened after him ; but he would not return, and went supper- 
less to bed. Euphra, however, carried him some supper. He 
sat up in bed and ate it with the tears in his eyes. She kissed 
him, and bade him good-night; when, just as she was leaving 
the room, he broke out with : — 

“But only think, Euphra, if it should be true! I woull 
rather not have been made.” 

“ It is not true,” said Euphra, in whom a faint glimmer of 
faith in God awoke for the sake of the boy whom she loved, — 
awoke to comfort him, when it would not open its eyes for 
herself. “ No, Harry dear, if there is a God at all, he is not 
like that.” 

“No, he can’t be,” said Harry, vehemently, and with the 
brightness of a sudden thought; “ for if he were like that, he 
wouldn’t be a God worth being; and that couldn’t be, you 
know.” 

Euphra knelt by her bedside, and prayed more hopefully 
than for many days before. She prayed that God would let 
her know that he was not an idol of man’s invention. 

Till friendly sleep came, and untied the knot of care, both 
Euphra and Harry lay troubled with things too great for them. 
Even in their sleep the care would gather again, and body 
itself into dreams. The first thought that visited Harry when 
he awoke was the memory of his dream ; that he died and went 
to heaven ; that heaven was a great church just like the one 
Mrs. Elton went to, only larger ; that the pews were filled 
with angels, so crowded together that they had to tuck up their 
wings very close indeed — and Harry could not help wondering 
what they wanted them for ; that they were all singing psalms ; 
that the pulpit by a little change had been converted into a 
throne, on which sat God the Father, looking very solemn and 
severe ; that Jesus was seated in the reading-desk, looking very 
sad ; and that the Holy Ghost sat on the clerk’s desk, in the 
shape of a white dove ; that a cherub, whose face reminded him 
very much of a policeman he knew, took him by the shoulder 
for trying to pluck a splendid green feather out of an arch- 
angel’s wing, and led him up to the throne, where God shook 
his head at him in such a dreadful way, that he was terrified, 
and then stretched out his hand to lay hold on him ; that he 
shrieked with fear ; and that Jesus put »ut his hand and lifted 


866 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


him into the reading-desk, and hid him down below. And 
there Harry lay, feeling so safe, stroking and kissing the feet 
that had been weary and wounded for him, till, in the growing 
delight of the thought that he actually held those feet, he came 
awake, and remembered it all. Truly, it was a childish dream, 
but not without its own significance. For surely the only 
refuge from heathenish representations cf God under Christian 
forms, the only refuge from man’s blinding and paralyzing 
theories, from the dead wooden shapes substituted for the living 
forms of human love and hope and aspiration, from the inter- 
pretations which render Scripture as dry as a speech in 
Chancery, — surely the one refuge from all these awful evils is 
the Son of man ; for no misrepresentation and no misconception 
can destroy the beauty of that face which the marring of sorrow 
has elevated into the region of reality, beyond the marring of 
irreverent speculation and scholastic definition. From the God 
of man’s painting, we turn to the man of God’s being, and he 
leads us to the true God, the radiation of whose glory we first 
see in him. Happy is that man who has a glimpse of this, 
even in a dream such as Harry’s ! — a dream in other respects 
childish and incongruous, but not more absurd than the instruc- 
tion whence it sprung. 

But the troubles returned with the day. Prayers revived 
them. He sought Euphra in her room. 

“ They say I must repent and be sorry for my sins,” said 
he. “I have been trying very hard ; but I can’t think of any, 
except once that I gave Gog” (his Welch pony) “such a 
beating, because he would go where I didn’t want him. But 
he’s forgotten it long ago ; and I gave him two feeds of corn 
after it, and so somehow I can’t feel very sorry now. What 
shall I do ? But that’s not what I mind most. It always 
seems to me it would be so much grander of God to say, 4 Come 
along, never mind. Ill make you good. I can’t wait till you 
are good, I love you so much.’ ” 

His own words were too much for Harry, and he burst into 
tears at the thought of God being so kind. Euphra, instead 
of trying to comfort him, cried too. Thus they continued for 
some time, Harry with his head on her knees, and she kindly 
fondling it with her distressed hands. Harry was the first to 
recover ; for his was the April time of life, when rain clean 


DAVID ELGINBROD; 


367 


the heavens. All at once he sprung to his feet, and ex- 
claimed : — 

“ Only think, Euphra ! What if, after all, I should find 
out that God is as kind as you are ! ” 

How Euphra’s heart smote her ! 

# “ Dear Harry,” answered she, “ God must be a great deal 
kinder than I am. I have not been kind to you at all.”* 

“ Don’t say that, Euphra. I shall be quite content if God 
is as kind as you.” 

1 1 0 Harry ! I hope God is like what I dreamed about 
my mother last night.” 

“ Tell me what you dreamed about her, dear Euphra.” 

“ I dreamed that I was a little child — ” 

“Were you a little girl when your mother died? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; such a tiny ! But I can just remember her.” 

“ Tell me your dream, then.” 

“ I dreamed that I was a little girl, out all alone on a wild 
mountain-moor, tripping and stumbling on my night-gown. 
And the wind was so cold ! And, somehow or other, the wind 
was an enemy to me, and it followed and caught me, and 
whirled and tossed me about, and then ran away again. Then 
I hastened on, and the thorns went into my feet, and the stones 
cut them. And I heard the blood from them trickling down 
the hill-side as I walked.” 

“ Then they would be like the feet I saw in my dream last 
night.” 

“ Whose feet were they? ” 

“Jesus’ feet.” 

“ Tell me about it.” 

“ You must finish yours first, please, Euphra.” 

So Euphra went on : — 

“ I got dreadfully lame. And the wind ran after me, and 
caught me again, and took me in his great blue ghostly arms, 
and shook me about, and then dropped me again to go on. But 
it was very hard to go on, and I couldn’t stop ; and there was 
no use in stopping, for the wind was everywhere in a moment. 
Then suddenly I saw before me a great cataract, all in white, 
falling flash from a precipice ; and I thought with myself, 1 1 
will go into the cataract, and it will beat my life out, and then 
the wind will not get me any more.’ So I hastened toward* 


368 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


it; but the wind taught me many times before I got near it. 
At last I reached it, and threw myself down into the basin it 
had hollowed out of the rocks. But as I was falling, something 
caught me gently, and held me fast, and it was not the wind. I 
opened my eyes, and behold ! I was in my mother’sarms, and she 
was clasping me to her breast ; for what I had taken for a cataract 
falling into a gulf was only my mother, with her white grave-clothes 
floating all about her, standing up in her grave, to look after me^ 

‘ It was time you came home, my darling,’ she said, and stooped 
down into her grave with me in her arms. And oh ! I was so 
happy ; and her bosom was not cold, or her arms hard, and she 
carried me just like a baby. And when she stooped down 
then a door opened, somewhere in the grave, I could not find 
out where exactly, and in a moment after, we were sitting 
together in a summer grove, with the tree-tops steeped in sun- 
shine, and waving about in a quiet, loving wind,— oh, how 
different from the one that chased me home ! — and we under- 
neath in the shadow of the trees. And then I said, 4 Mother, 

I’ve hurt my feet. 5 ” . , 

“Did you call her mother when you were a little girl: 

interposed Harry. , V1 

“No,” answered Euphra. “I called her mamma , like 
other children; but in my dreams I always call her mother .” 

4 4 And what did she say ? 5 5 

“ She said, 4 Poor child ! 5 and held my feet to her bosom ; 
and after that, when I looked at them, the bleeding was all 
gone, and I was not lame any more.” 

Euphra paused with a sigh. 

“ 0 Harry ! I do not like to be lame. 55 

“ What more? 55 said Harry, intent only on the dream. 

“ Oh ! then I was so happy that I woke up directly. 55 

“ What a pity ! But if it should come true? 55 

“ How could it come true, dear Harry ? 55 

“Why, this world is sometimes cold, and the road is hard, — 
you know what I mean, Euphra. 55 

“Yes, Ido.” 

“ I wish I could dream like that ! How clever you must be ! 

“ But you dream dreams too, Harry. Tell me yours.' 5 

“ Oh, no, I never dream dream?; the dreams dream me, 5 
answered Harry, with a smile. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


369 


Then he told his dream, to which Euphra listened with an 
interest uninjured by the grotesqueness of its fancy. Each 
interpreted the other’s with reverence. 

They ceased talking, and sat silent for a while. Then Harry, 
putting his arms round Euphra’s neck, and his lips close to her 
ear, whispered : — 

“ Perhaps God will say my darling to you some day, 
Euphra; just as your mother did in your dream.” 

She was silent. Harry looked round into her face, and saw 
that the tears were flowing fast. 

At that instant, a gentle knock came to the door. Euphra 
could not reply to it. It was repeated. After anothei mo- 
ment’s delay the door opened, and Margaret walked in. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

A SUNDAY WITH FALCONER. 


How happy is he born and taught, 

That serveth not another’s will; 

Whose armor is his honest thought, 

And simple truth his utmost skill! 

This man is freed from servile bands, 

Of hope to rise or fear to fall: 

Lord of himself, though not of lands, 

And, having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 


It was not often that Falconer went to church; out he 
seemed to have some design in going oftener than usual at 
present. The Sunday after the one last mentioned, he went 
as well, though not to the same church, and, calling for Hugh, 
took him with him. What they found there, and the conver- 
sation following thereupon, I will try to relate, because, al- 
though they do not immediately affect my outward story, they 
greatly influenced Hugh’s real history. 

They heard the Morning Service and the Litany read in an 
ordinary manner, though somewhat more ievoutly tuan usual. 
Then, from communion-table, rose a /oice vibrating with 


370 


DAVID ELGTNBROD. 


solemn emotion, like the voice of Abraham pleading for Sodom. 
It thrilled through Hugh’s heart. The sermon which followed 
affected him no less, although, when he came out, he confessed 
to Falconer that he had only caught flying glimpses of its 
meaning, scope, and drift. 

“ I seldom go to church,” said Falconer ; “ but when I do, 
I come here ; and always feel that I am in the presence of one 
of the holy servants of God’s great temple not made with 
hands. I heartily trust that man. He is what he seems to be.” 

“ They say he is awfully heterodox.” 

“ They do.” 

lt How, then, can he remain in the church, if he is as honest 
as you say?” 

“ In this way, as I humbly venture to think,” Falconer 
answered. 11 He looks upon the formulae of the church as utter- 
ances of living truth, — vital embodiments, — to be regarded as 
one ought to regard human faces. In these human faces 
others may see this or that inferior expression, may find out 
the mean and the small and the incomplete ; he looks for and 
finds the ideal ; the grand, sacred, God-meant meaning ; and 
by that he holds as the meaning of the human countenances, for 
it is the meaning of Him who made them. So with the confes- 
sion of the Church of England : he believes that not man only, 
but God also, and God first and chief, had to do with the mak- 
ing of it ; and therefore he looks in it for the Eternal and the 
Divine, and he finds what he seeks. And as no words can 
avoid bearing in them the possibility of a variety of interpre- 
tations, he would exclude whatever the words might mean, or, 
regarded merely as words, do mean, in a narrow exposition ; 
he° thinks it would be dishonest to take the low meaning as the 
meaning. To return to the faces : he passes by moods and 
tempers, and beholds the main character, — that on whose sur- 
face the temporal and transient floats. Both in faces and in 
formulae he loves the divine substance, with his true, manly, 
brave heart; and as for the faults in bath, — for man, too, ha3 
his share in both, — I believe he is ready to die by them, if only 
in so doing he might die for them. I had a vision of him this 
morning as I sat and listened to his voice, which always seems 
to me to come immediately from his heart, as if his heart spoke 
with lips of its own. Shall I tell you my vision? 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


371 


%t I saw a crowd — priests and laymen — speeding, hurrying, 
darting away, up a steep, crumbling height. Mitres, hoods, 
and hats rolled behind them to the bottom. Every one for 
himself, with hands and feet they scramble and flee, to save 
their souls from the fires of hell which come rolling in along 
the hollow below with the forward { pointing spires 5 of billowy 
flame. But beneath, right in the course of the fire, stands 
one man, upon a little rock which goes down to the centre of 
the great world, and faces the approaching flames. He stands 
bareheaded, his eyes bright with faith in God, and the mighty 
mouth that utters his truth fixed in holy defiance. His 
denial comes from no fear, or weak dislike to that which is 
painful. On neither side will he tell lies for peace. He is 
ready to be lost for his fellow-men. In the name of God he 
rebukes the flames of hell. The fugitives pause on the top, look 
back, call him lying prophet , and shout evil, opproorious 
names at the man who counts not his own life dear to him, who 
has forgotten his own soul in his sacred devotion to men, who 
fills up what is left behind of the sufferings of Christ, for his 
body’s sake, — for the human race, of which he is the head. Be 
sure that, come what may of the rest, let the flames of hell 
ebb or flow, that man is safe, for he is delivered already from 
the only devil that can make hell itself a torture, the devil of sel- 
fishness, — the only one that can possess a man and make him- 
self his own living hell. He is out of all that region of things, 
and already dwelling in the secret place of the Almighty.” 

“ Go on, go on.” 

“ He trusts in God so absolutely, that he leaves his salva- 
tion to him — utterly, fearlessly ; and, forgetting it, as being no 
concern of his, sets himself to do the work that God has given 
him to do, even as his Lord did before him, counting that alone 
worthy of his care. Let God’s will be done, and all is well. 
If God’s will be done, he cannot fare ill. To him, God is all 
in all. If it be possible to separate such things, it is the glory 
of God, even more than the salvation of men, that he seeks. 
He will not have it that his Father in heaven is not perfect. 
He believes entirely that God loves, yea. is love ; and, there- 
fore, that hell itself must be subservient to that love, and but 
an embodiment of it ; that the grand work of J ustice is to 
make way for a Love which will give to every man that which 


872 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


is right, and ten times more, even if it should be by means of 
awful suffering, — a suffering which the Love of the Father will 
not shun, either for himself or his children, but will eagerly 
meet for their sakes, that he may give them all that is in his 
heart.” 

“ Surely you speak your own opinions in describing thus 
warmly the faith of the preacher.” 

“ I do. He is accountable for nothing I say. All I assert 
is, that this is how I seem to myself to succeed in understand- 
ing him.” 

M How is it that so many good people call him heterodox?” 

“I do not mind that. I am annoyed only when good- 
hearted people, with small natures and cultivated intellects, 
patronize him, and talk forgivingly of his warm heart and 
unsound judgment. To these, theology must be like a map, — 
with plenty of lines in it. They cannot trust their house on 
the high table-land of his theology, because they cannot see 
the outlines bounding the said table-land. It is not small 
enough for them. They cannot take it in. Such can hardly 
be satisfied with the creation, one would think, seeing there is 
no line of division anywhere in it. They would take care 
there should be no mistake.” 

“ Does God draw no lines, then? ” 

“When he does, they are pure lines, without breadth, and 
consequently invisible to mortal eyes ; not Chinese walls of 
separation, such as these definers would construct. Such 
minds are a priori incapable of theorizing upon his theories. 
Or, to alter the figure, they will discover a thousand faults in 
his drawing, but they can never behold the figure constructed 
by his lines, and containing the faults which they believe they 
discover.” 

“ But can those theories in religion be correct which are so 
hard to see?” 

“ They are only hard to certain natures.” 

“ But those natures are above the average.” 

“ Yes, in intellect and its cultivation — nothing more.” 

“You have granted them heart.” 

“ Not much ; but what there is, good.” 

“ That is allowing a great deal, though. Is it not hard, then, 
to say that such cannot understand him? ” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


873 


u Why ? They will get to heaven, which is all they want. 
And they will understand him one day, which is more than 
they pray for. Till they have done being anxious about their 
own salvation, we must forgive them that they can contemplate 
with calmness the damnation of a universe, and believe that 
God is yet more indifferent than they.” 

u But do they not bring the charge likewise against you, of 
being unable to understand them? ” 

u Yes. And so it must remain, till the Spirit of God decide 
the matter, which I presume must take place by slow degrees. 
For this decision can only consist in the enlightenment of souls 
to see the truth ; and therefore has to do with individuals only. 
There is no triumph for the Truth but that. She knows no 
glorying over the vanquished, for in her victory the vanquished 
is already of the vanquishers. Till then, the Right must be 
content to be called the Wrong, and — which is far harder — 
to seem the Wrong. There is no spiritual victory gained by a 
verbal conquest ; or by any kind of torture, even should the 
rack employed be that of the purest logic. Nay, more : so 
long as the wicked themselves remain impenitent, there is 
mourning in heaven ; and when there is no longer any hope 
over one last remaining sinner, heaven itself must confess its 
defeat, heap upon that sinner what plagues you will.” 

Hugh pondered, and continued pondering till they reached 
Falconer’s chambers. At the door Hugh paused. 

“Will you not come in ? ” 

“ I fear I shall become troublesome.” 

“No fear of that. I promise to get rid of you as soon as 
I find you so.” 

“ Thank you. J ust let me know when you have had enough 
of me.” 

They entered. Mrs. Ashton, who, unlike her class, was 
never missing when wanted, got them some bread and cheese : 
and Falconer’s Fortunatus-purse of a cellar — the bottom of 
his cupboard — supplied its usual bottle of port ; to which fare 
the friends sat down. 

The conversation, like a bird descending in spirals, settled 
at last upon the subject which had more or less occupied Hugh’s 
thoughts ever since his unsatisfactory conversation with Fun- 
kelstein, at their first meeting; and still more since he had 


374 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


learned that this man himself exercised an unlawful influence 
over Euphra. He begged Falconer, if lie had any theory com- 
prehending such things, to let him know what kind of a rela- 
tion it was in which Miss Cameron stood to Funkelstein, or 
Count von Halkar. 

“I have had occasion to think a good deal about those 
things,” said Falconer. “ The first thing evident is, that Miss 
Cameron is peculiarly constituted, belonging to a class which 
is, however, larger than is commonly supposed, circumstances 
rarely combining to bring out its peculiarities. In those who 
constitute this class, the nervous element, either from prepon- 
derating, or from not being in healthy and harmonious com- 
bination with the more material element, manifests itself be- 
yond its ordinary sphere of operation, and so occasions result? 
unlike the usual phenomena of life, though, of course, in ac- 
cordance with natural laws. To use a simile : it is, in such 
cases, as if all the nerves of the human body came crowding to 
the surface, and there exposed themselves to a thousand in- 
fluences from which they would otherwise be preserved. Of 
course I am not attempting to explain, only to suggest a con- 
ceivable hypothesis. Upon such constitutions, it would not be 
surprising that certain other constitutions, similar, yet differing, 
should exercise a peculiar influence. You are, I dare say, 
more or less familiar with the main features of mesmerism and 
its allies, among which is what is called biology. I presume 
it is on such constitutions as I have supposed, that those powers 
are chiefly operative. Miss Cameron has, at some time or other 
in her history, submitted herself to the influences of this Count 
Halkar ; and he has thus gained a most dangerous authority 
over her, which he has exercised for his own ends.” 

“ She more than implied as much in the last conversation I 
had with her.” 

“ So his will became her law. There is in the world of 
mind a something corresponding to physical force in the material 
world. I cannot avoid just touching upon a higher analogy. 
The kingdom of heaven is not come, even when God’s will is 
our law : it is come when God’s will is our will. While God’s 
will is our law, we are but a kind of noble slaves ; when his 
will is our will, we are free children. Nothing in nature is 
free enough to be a symbol for the state of those who act im- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


375 


mediately from the essence of their hidden life, and the rec- 
ognition of God’s will as that essence. But, as I said, this 
belongs to a far higher region. I only wanted to touch on the 
relation of the freedoms, — physical, mental, and spiritual. 
To return to the point in hand : I recognize in the story a clear 
evidence of strife and partial victory in the affair of the ring. 
The count — we will call him by the name he gives himself — 
had evidently been anxious for years to possess himself of this 
ring ; the probable reasons we have already talked of. He had 
laid his injunctions on his slave to find it for him ; and she, 
perhaps at first nothing loth, perhaps loving the man as well 
as submitting to him, had for a long time attempted to find it, 
but had failed. The count, probably doubting her sincerity, 
and hoping, at all events, to urge her search, followed her to 
Arnstead, where it is very likely he had been before, although 
he had avoided Mr. Arnold. Judging it advantageous to get 
into the house, in order to make observations, he employed his 
chance meeting with you to that result. But, before this, he 
had watched Miss Cameron’s familiarity with you, — was 
jealous and tyrannical. Hence the variations of her conduct 
to you ; for when his power was upon her she could not do as she 
pleased. But she must have had a real regard for you ; for 
she evidently refused to get you into trouble by taking the ring 
from your custody. But my surprise is that the fellow limited 
himself to that one jewel.” 

11 You may soon be relieved from that surprise,” answered 
Hugh ; “ he took a valuable diamond of mine as well.” 

“ The rascal ! We may catch him, but you are not likely 
to find your diamond again. Still, there is some possibility.” 

“ How do you know she was not willing to take it from me?” 

“ Because, by her own account, he had to destroy her 
power of volition entirely, before he could make her do it. He 
threw her into a mesmeric sleep.” 

U I should like to understand his power over her a little 
better. In such cases of biology — how they came to abuse 
the word, I should like to know — ” 

“Just as they call table-rapping , etc., spiritualism .” 

“ I suppose his relation to her must be classed amongst phe- 
nomena of that sort ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 


876 


DAVID ELG1NBR0D. 


“Well, tell me, does the influence oitlait the mesmeric 
condition?” 

“ If by mesmeric condition you mean any state evidently 
approaching to that of sleep — undoubtedly. It is, in many 
eases, quite independent of such a condition. Perhaps the 
degree of willing submission at first may have something to 
do with it. But mesmeric influence, whatever it may mean, is 
entirely independent of sleep. That is an accident accompany- 
ing it; perhaps sometimes indicating its culmination.” 

“Does the person so influenced act with or against his will ? 9 

“ That is a most difficult question, involving others equally 
difficult. My own impression is, that the patient — for patient 
in a very serious sense he is — acts with his inclination, and 
often with his will; but in many cases with his inclination 
against his will. This is a very important distinction in mor- 
als, but often overlooked. When a man is acting with his 
inclination, his will is in abeyance. In our present imperfect 
condition, it seems to me that the absolute will has no opportu- 
nity of pure action, of operating entirely as itself, except when 
working in opposition to inclination. But to return : the 
power of the biologist, appears to me to lie in this, — he is able, 
by some mysterious sympathy, to produce in the mind of the 
patient such forceful impulses to do whatever he wills, that 
they are in fact irresistible to almost all who are obnoxious to 
his influence. The will requires an especial training and a 
distinct development, before it is capable of acting with any 
degree of freedom. The men who have undergone this are 
very few indeed ; and no one whose will is not educated as 
will , can, if subjected to the influences of biology, resist the 
impulses roused in his passive brain by the active brain of the 
operator. This at least is my impression. 

“ Other things no doubt combined to increase the influence in 
the present case. She liked him ; perhaps more than liked him 
once. She was partially committed to his schemes ; and she 
was easily mesmerized. It would seem, besides, that she was 
naturally disposed to somnambulism. This is a remarkable 
coexistence of distinct developments of the same peculiarity. 
In this latter cqndition, even if in others she were able to resist 
him, she would be quite helpless ; for all the thoughts that 
passed through }ier brqin would owe their origin to his. 


DAVID ELSINBROD, 


877 


Imagine being forced to think another man’s thoughts ! That 
would be possession indeed ! And this is not far removed 
from the old stories about the demons entering into a man. He 
would be ruler over the whole intellectual life that passed in 
her during the time ; and which to her, as far as the ideas 
suggested belonged to the outward world, would appear an 
outer life, passing all round her, not in her. She would, in 
fact, be a creature of his imagination for the time, as much 
as any character invented, and sent through varied cir- 
cumstances, feelings, and actions, by the mind of the poet or 
novelist. Look at the facts. She warned you to beware of 
the count that night before you went into the haunted bed- 
chamber. Even when she entered it, by your own account — ” 

“ Entered it? Then you do think it was Euphra who per- 
sonated the ghost?” 

“Iam sure of it. She was sleep-walking.” 

“ But so different — such a death-like look ! ” 

“All that was easy enough to manage. She refused to 
obey him at first. He mesmerized her. It very likely went 
farther than he expected ; and he succeeded too well. Experi- 
enced, no doubt, in disguises, he dressed her as like the dead 
Lady Euphrasia as he could, following her picture. Perhaps 
she possessed such a disguise, and had used it before. He 
thus protected her from suspicion, and himself from implica- 
tion. What was the color of the hair in the picture? ” 

“ Golden.” 

“ Hence the sparkle of gold dust in her hair. The count 
managed it all. He willed that she should go, and she went. 
Her disguise was certain safety, should she be seen. You 
would suspect the ghost, and no one else, if she appeared to 
you, and you lost the ring after. But even in this state she 
yielded against her better inclination, for she was weeping 
when you saw her. But she could not help it. While you 
lay on the couch in the haunted chamber, where he carried 
you, the awful death-ghost was busy in your room, was open- 
ing your desk, fingering your papers, and stealing your ring. 
It is rather a frightful idea.” 

“ She did not take my ring, I am sure. He followed her, 
and took it. But she could not have come in at either door.” 

“ Could not ? Did she not go out at one of them ? Besides, 


878 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


I do not doubt that such a room as that had private communi- 
cation with the open air as well. I should much like to exam- 
ine the place.” 

11 But how could she have gone through the bolted dooi 
then?” 

“ That door may have been set in another, larger by half 
the frame or so, and opening with a spring and concealed 
hinges. There is no difficulty about that. There are suob 
places to be found now and then in old houses. But, indeed, 
if you will excuse me, I do not consider your testimony, on 
every minute particular, quite satisfactory.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Hugh, rather offended. 

“ First, because of the state of excitement you must have 
been in ; and next, because I doubt the wine that was left in 
your room. The count, no doubt, knew enough of drugs to put 
a few ghostly horrors into the decanter. But poor Miss Cam- 
eron ! The horrors he has put into her mind and life ! It is 
a sad fate — all but a sentence of insanity.” 

Hugh sprang to his feet. 

“ By heaven ! ” he cried, “ I will strangle the knave.” 

“ Stop, stop ! ” said Falconer. “ No revenge ! Leave him 
to the sleeping divinity within him, which will awake one day, 
and complete the hell that he is now building for himself, — for 
the very fire of hell is the divine in it. Your work is to set 
Euphra free. If you did strangle him, how do you know that 
would free her from him? ” 

“ Horrible ! Have you no news of him? ” 

11 None whatever.” 

“ What, then, can I do for her ? ” 

“ You must teach her to foil him.” 

“ How am I to do that ? Even if I knew how, I cannot 
Pee her, I cannot speak to her.” 

“ I have a great faith in opportunity.” 

u But how should she foil him? ” 

1 1 She must pray to God to redeem her fettered will — to 
strengthen her will to redeem herself. She must resist the 
count, should he again claim her submission (as, for her sake, 
I hope he will), as she would the devil himself. She mist 
overcome. Then she will be free — not before. This will be 
very hard to do. Ilis power has been excessive and peculiar, 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


379 


and her submission long and complete. Even if he left her 
alone, she would not therefore be free. She must defy him ; 
break his bonds; oppose his will; assert her freedom; and 
defeat him utterly.” 

“Oh ! who will help her? I have no power. Even if I 
were with her, I could not help her in such a struggle. I 
wish David were not dead. He was the man. You could 
now, Mr. Falconer.” 

“No. Except I knew her, had known her for some time, 
and had a strong hold of all her nature, I could not, would 
not, try to help her. If Providence brought this about, I 
would do my best ; but otherwise I would not interfere. But 
if she pray to God, he will give her whatever help she needs, 
and in the best way too.” 

“ I think it will be some comfort to her if we could find the 
ring, — the crystal, I mean.” 

“ It would be more, I think, if we could find the diamond.” 

“ How can we find either? ” 

“We must find the count first. I have not given that up, 
of course. I will tell you what I should like to do, if I knew 
the lady.” 

“What?” 

“ Get her to come to London, and make herself as public as 
possible : go to operas, and balls, and theatres ; be presented at 
court ; take a stall at every bazaar, and sell charity puff-balls, 
— get as much into the papers as possible. ‘ The lovely, 
accomplished, fascinating Miss Cameron, etc., etc.’ ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“I will tell you what I mean. The count has forsaken her 
now; but as soon as he heard that she was somebody, that she 
was followed and admired, his vanity would be roused, his old 
sense of property in her would revive, and he would begin 
once more to draw her into his toils. What the result would 
be, it is impossible to foretell ; but it would at least give us a 
chance of catching him, and her a chance of resisting him.” 

“I don’t think, however, that she would venture on that 
course herself. I should not dare to propose it to her.” 

“ No no. It was only an invention, to deceive myself with 
the fancy that I was doing something. There would be ma ny 
objections to such a plan, even if it were practicable. I must 


380 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


still try to find him, and, if fresh endeavors should fail, devise 
fresher still.” 

“Thank you a thousand times,” said Hugh. “It is too 
good of you to take so much trouble.” 

“ It is my business,” answered Falconer. “ Is there not a 
soul in trouble ? ” 

Hugh went home, full of his new friend. With the clue 
he had given him, he was able to follow all the windings of 
Euphra’s behavior, and to account for almost everything that 
had taken place. It was quite painful for him to feel that he 
could be of no immediate service to her ; but he could hardly 
doubt that, before long, Falconer would, in his wisdom and 
experience, excogitate some mode of procedure in which he 
might be able to take a part. 

He sat down to his novel, which had been making but little 
progress for some time ; for it is hard to write a novel when 
one is living in the midst of a romance. But the romance, at 
this time, was not very close to him. It had a past and a pos- 
sible future, but no present. That same future, however, 
might at any moment dawn into the present. 

In the mean time, teaching the Latin grammar and the 
English alphabet to young aspirants after the honors of the 
ministry , was not work inimical to invention, from either the 
exhaustion of its excitement or the absorption of its interest. 


CHAPTER LX. 

THE LADY’S-MAID. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck; 

And her two eyes, like stars in skies, 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 

Oh ! Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, 

Mally’s modest and discreet; 

Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, 

Mally’s every way complete. 

Burns. 

What arms for innocence but innocence. 

Giles Fletcher. 

Margaret had sought Euphra’s room, with the intention 
of restoring to her the letter which she had written to David 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


381 


Elginbrod. Janet had let it lie for some time before she sent 
it to Margaret ; and Euphra had given up all expectation of 
an answer. 

Hopes of ministration filled Margaret’s heart; but she 
expected, from what she knew of her, that anger would be 
Miss Cameron’s first feeling. Therefore, when she heard no 
answer to her application for admission, and had concluded, in 
consequence, that Euphra was not in the room, she resolved to 
leave the letter where it would meet her eye, and thus prepare 
the way for a future conversation. When she saw Euphra and 
Harry, she would have retired immediately; but Euphra, 
annoyed by her entrance, was now quite able to speak. 

“ What do you want? ” she said, angrily. 

“ This is your letter, Miss Cameron, is it not? ” said Mar- 
garet, advancing with it in her hand. 

Euphra took it, glanced at the direction, pushed Harry 
away from her, started up in a passion, and let loose the whole 
gathered irritability of contempt, weariness, disappointment, 
and suffering, upon Margaret. Her dark eyes flashed with 
rage, and her sallow cheek glowed like a peach. 

“ What right have you, pray, to handle my letters? How 
did you get this ? It has never been posted ! And open, too, 
I declare ! I suppose you have read it? ” 

Margaret was afraid of exciting more wrath before she had 
an opportunity of explaining ; but Euphra gave her no time to 
think of a reply. 

“ You have read it, you shameless woman ! Why don’t 
you lie, like the rest of your tribe, and keep me from dying 
with indignation ? Impudent prying ! My maid never posted 
it, and you have found it and read it ! Pray, did you hope to 
find a secret worth a bribe? ” 

She advanced on Margaret till within a foot of her. 

“ Why don’t you answer, you hussy? I will go this 
instant to your mistress. You or I leave the house.” 

Margaret had stood all this time quietly, waiting for an 
opportunity to speak. Her face was very pale, but perfectly 
still, and her eyes did not quail. She had not in the least lost 
her self-possession. She would net say at once that she had 
read the letter, because that wou*.d instantly rouse the tornado 
again. 


382 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“You do not know my name, Miss Cameron; of course 
you could not.” 

“ Your name ! What is that to me ? ” 

“That,” said Margaret, pointing to the letter, “is my 
father’s name.” 

Euphra looked at her own direction again, and then looked 
at Margaret. She was so bewildered, that, if she had any 
thoughts, she did not know them. Margaret went on : — 

“ My father is dead. My mother sent the letter to me.” 

“ Then you have had the impertinence to read it ! ” 

“ It was my duty to read it.” 

“ Duty ! What business had you with it? ” 

Euphra felt ashamed of the letter as soon as she found that 
she had applied to a man whose daughter was a servant. 
Margaret answered : — 

“ I could at least reply to it so far, that the writer should 
not think my father had neglected it. I did not know who it 
was from till I came to the end.” 

Euphra turned her back on her, with the words : — 

“ You may go.” 

Margaret walked out of the room with an unconscious, stately 
gentleness. 

“ Come back,” cried Euphra. 

Margaret obeyed. 

“Of course you will tell all your fellow-servants the con- 
tents of this foolish letter.” 

Margaret’s face flushed, and her eye flashed, at the first 
words of this speech ; but the last words made her forget the 
first, and to them only she replied. Clasping her hands, she 
said : — 

“ Dear Miss Cameron, do not call it foolish. For God’s 
sake, do not call it foolish.” 

“ What is it to you ? Do you think I am going to make a 
confidante of you?” 

Margaret again left the room. Notwithstanding that she 
had made no answer to her insult, Euphra felt satisfied that 
her letter was safe from profanation. 

No sooner was Margaret out of sight, than, with the reaction 
common to violent tempers, which in this case resulted the 
sooner, from the exhaustion produced in a worn frame by the 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


383 


violence of the outburst, Euphra sat down, in a hopeless, 
unresting way, upon the chair from which she had just risen, 
and began weeping more bitterly than before. She was not 
only exhausted, but ashamed ; and to these feelings was added 
a far greater sense of disappointment than she could have 
believed possible, at the frustration of the hope of help from 
David Elginbrod. True, this hope had been small ; but 
where there is only one hope, its death is equally bitter, 
whether it be a great or a little hope. And there is often no 
power of reaction, in a mind which has been gradually reduced 
to one little faint hope, when that hope goes out in darkness. 
There is a recoil, which is very helpful, from the blow that 
kills a great hope. 

All this time Harry had been looking on, in a kind of para- 
lyzed condition, pale with perplexity and distress. He now 
came up to Euphra, and, trying to pull her hand gently from 
her face, said : — 

“ What is it all about, Euphra, dear? ” 

“ Oh ! I have been very naughty, Harry.” 

“ But what is it all about? May I read the letter ? ” 

“If you like,” answered Euphra, listlessly. 

Harry read the letter with quivering features. Then, laying 
it down on the table with a reverential slowness, went to 
Euphra, put his arms round her and kissed her. 

“ Dear, dear Euphra, I did not know you were so unhappy. 
I will find God for you. But first I will — what shall I do to 
the bad man ? Who is it ? I will — ” 

Harry finished the sentence by setting his teeth hard. 

“ Oh ! you can’t do anything for me, Harry, dear. Only 
mind you don’t say anything about it to any one. Put the 
letter in the fire there for me.” 

“ No — that I won’t,” said Harry, taking up the letter, and 
holding it tight. “It is a beautiful letter, and it does me 
good. Don’t you think, though it is not sent to God himself, 
he may read it, and take it for a prayer? ” 

“ I wish he would, Harry.” 

“ But it was very wrong of you, Euphra, dear, to speak as 
you did to the daughter of such a good man.” 

“Yes, it was.” 


884 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ But then, you see, you got angry before you knew who 
she was.” 

“ But I shouldn’t have got angry before I knew all about 
it.” 

“Well, you have only to say you are sorry, and Margaret 
won’t think anything more about it. Oh, she is so good ! ” 

Euphra recoiled from making confession of wrong to a lady’s- 
maid ; and perhaps she was a little jealous of Harry’s admi- 
ration of Margaret. For Euphra had not yet cast off all her 
old habits of mind, and one of them was the desire to be first 
with every one whom she cared for. She had got rid of a worse, 
which was, a necessity of being first in every company, 
whether she cared for the persons composing it, or not. 
Mental suffering had driven the latter far enough from her ; 
though it would return worse than ever, if her mind were not 
filled with truth in the place of ambition. So she did not re- 
spond to what Harry said. Indeed, she did not speak again, 
except to beg him to leave her alone. She did not make her 
appearance again that day. 

But at night, when the household was retiring, she rose from 
the bed on which she had been lying half unconscious, and 
going to the door, opened it a little way, that she might hear 
when Margaret should pass from Mrs. Elton’s room towards 
her own. She waited for some time ; but judging, at length, 
that she must have passed without her knowledge, she 
went and knocked at her door. Margaret opened it a little, 
after a moment’s delay, half undressed. 

“ May I come in, Margaret ? ” 

“ Pray, do, Miss Cameron,” answered Margaret. 

And she opened the door quite. Her cap was off, and her 
rich dark hair fell on her shoulders, and streamed thence to 
her waist. Her under-clothing was white as snow. 

“ What a lovely skin she has ! ” thought Euphra, compar- 
ing it with her own tawny complexion. She felt, for the first 
time, that Margaret was beautiful, — yes, more : that whatever 
her gown might be, her form and her skin (give me a prettier 
word, kind reader, for a beautiful fact, and I will gladly use 
it) were those of one of nature’s ladies. She was soon to 
find that her intellect and spirit were those of one of God’s 
ladies. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


385 


“I am very sorry, Margaret, that I sp )ke to you as I did 
to-day.” 

“Never mind it, Miss Cameron. We cannot help being 
angry sometimes. And you had great provocation under the 
mistake you made. I was only sorry, because I knew it would 
trouble you afterwards. Please don’t think c 0 it again.” 

“You are very kind, Margaret.” 

“I regretted my father’s death, for the first iime, after 
reading your letter, for I knew he could have helped you. But 
it was very foolish of me, for God is not dead.” 

Margaret smiled as she said this, looking full in Euphra’s 
eyes. It was a smile of meaning unfathomable, and it quite 
overcame Euphra. She had never liked Margaret before ; for, 
from not very obscure .psychological causes, she had never felt 
comfortable in her presence, especially after she had encoun- 
tered the nun in the Ghost’s Walk, though she had had no sus- 
picion that the nun was Margaret. A great many of our dis- 
likes, both to persons and things, arise from a feeling of 
discomfort associated with them, perhaps only accidentally 
present in our minds the first time we met them. But this 
vanished entirely now. 

“ Do you, then, know God too, Margaret? ” 

“Yes,” answered Margaret, simply and solemnly. 

“Will you tell me about him? ” 

“ I can at least tell you about my father, and what he taught 
me.” 

“ Oh ! thank you, thank you ! Do tell me about him, — 
now.” 

“Not now, dear Miss Cameron. It is late, and you are too 
unwell to stay up longer. Let me help you to bed to-night. I 
will be your maid.” 

As she spoke, Margaret proceeded to put on her dress again, 
that she might go with Euphra, who had no attendant. She 
had parted with Jane, and did not care, in her present mood, 
to have a woman about her, especially a new one. 

“No, Margaret. You have enough to do without adding me 
to your troubles.” 

“ Please, do let me, Miss Cameron. It will be a great 
pleasure to me. I have hardly anything to call wwk. You 
should see how I used to work when I was at home. ’ 

25 


386 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Euphra still objected, but Margaret’s entreaty prevailed. 
She followed Euphra to her room. There she served her like 
a ministering angel ; brushed her hair — oh, so gently ! 
smoothing it out as if she loved it. There was health in the 
touch of her hands, because there was love. She undressed 
her; covered her in bed as if she had been a child ; made up 
the fire to last as long as possible; bade her good-night; 
and was leaving the room, when Euphra called her. Margaret 
returned to the bedside. 

“ Kiss me, Margaret,” she said. 

Margaret stooped, kissed her forehead and her lips, and left 
her. 

Euphra cried herself to sleep. They were the first tears 
she had ever shed that were not painful tears. She slept as 
she had not slept for months. 

In order to understand this change in Euphrasia’s behavior 
to Margaret — in order, in fact, to represent it to our minds as 
at all credible — we must remember that she had been trying 
to do right for some time ; that Margaret, as the daughter of 
David, seemed the only attainable source of the knowledge she 
sought ; that long illness had greatly weakened her obstinacy ; 
that her soul hungered, without knowing it, for love ; and that 
she was naturally gifted with a strong will, the position in 
which she stood in relation to the count proving only that it 
was not strong enough, and not that it was weak. Such a 
character must, for any good, be ruled by itself, and not by 
circumstances. To have been overcome in the process of time 
by the persistent goodness of Margaret, might have been the 
blessed fate of a weaker and worse woman ; but if Euphra did 
not overcome herself, there was no hope of further victory. If 
Margaret could even wither the power of her oppressor, it 
would be but to transfer the lordship from a bad man to a good 
woman ; and that would not be enough. It would not be free* 
dom. And, indeed, the aid that Margaret had to give hei 
could only be bestowed on one who already had freedom enough 
to act in some degree from duty. She knew she ought to go 
and apologize to Margaret. She went. 

In Margaret’s presence, and in such a mood, she was sub- 
jected at once to the holy enchantment of her loving-kindness. 
She had never received any tenderness from a woman before 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


887 


Perhaps she had never been in the right mood to profit by 
it if she had. Nor had she ever before seen what Margaret 
was. It was only when service — divine service — flowed 
from her in full outgoing, that she reached the height of her 
loveliness. Then her whole form was beautiful. So was it 
interpenetrated by, and respondent to, the uprising soul within, 
that it radiated thought and feeling as if it had been all spirit. 
This beauty rose to its best in her eyes. When she was min- 
istering to any one in need, her eyes seemed to worship the 
object of her faithfulness, as if all the time she felt that she was 
doing it unto Him. Her deeds were devotion. She was the 
receiver, and not the giver. Before this, Euphra had seen 
only the still, waiting face ; and, as I have said, she had been 
repelled by it. Once within the sphere of the radiation of her 
attraction, she was drawn towards her, as towards the haven of 
her peace ; she loved her. 

To this, at length, had her struggle with herself in the 
silence of her own room, and her meditations on her couch, 
conducted her. Shall we say that these alone had been and 
were leading her ? Or that to all these there was a hidden 
root, and an informing spirit ? Who would not rather believe 
that his thoughts come from an infinite, self-sphered, self- 
constituting thought, than that they rise somehow out of a 
blank abyss of darkness, and are only thought when he 
thinks them, which thinking he cannot predetermine or even 
foresee ? 

When Euphra woke, her first breath was like a deep draught 
of spiritual water. She felt as if some sorrow had passed 
from her, and some gladness come in its stead. She thought 
and thought, and found that the gladness was Margaret. She 
had scarcely made the discovery, when the door gently opened, 
and Margaret peeped in to see if she were awake. 

“ May I come in ?” she said. 

“Yes, please, Margaret.’ 7 

“ How do you feel to-day ? ” 

“ Oh, so much better, dear Margaret ! Your kindness 
will make me well.” 

“ I am so glad ! Do lie still a while, and I will bring you 
some breakfast. Mrs. Elton will be so pleased to find you let 
me wait on you ! ” 


388 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“She asked me, Margaret, if you should, but I -was too 
miserable — and too naughty, for I did not like you.” 

“I knew that,- but I felt sure you would not dislike me 


“Why?” 

“ Because I could not help loving you.” 

“ Why did you love me? ” 

“I will tell you half the reason. Because you looked 
lappy.” 

1 What was the other half ? ” 

'* That I cannot — I mean I will not tell you.” 

“ Never? ” 

“ Perhaps never. But I don’t know. Not now.” 

“ Then I must not ask you ? ” 

“ No — please.” 

“Very well, I won’t.” 

“ Thank you. I will go and get your breakfast.” 

“ What can she mean ? ” said Euphra to herself. 

But she would never have found out. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

DAVID ELGINBROD. 

He being dead yet speaketh. 

Heb. xi. 4 . 

In all “ he ” did 

Some figure of the golden times was hid. 

Db. Donne. 

From this time, Margaret waited upon Euphra, as if she 
bad been her own maid. Nor had Mrs. Elton any cause of 
complaint, for Margaret was always at hand when she was 
wanted. Indeed, her mistress was full of her praises. 
Euphra said little. 

Many and long were the conversations between the two 
girls, when all but themselves were asleep. Sometimes 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


889 


Harry made one of the company ; but they could always send 
him away when they wished to be alone. And now the 
teaching for which Euphra had longed, sprang in a fountain 
at her own door. It had been nigh her long, and she had not 
known it, for its hour had not come. Now she drank as only 
the thirsty drink, — as they drink whose very souls are faint- 
ing within them for drought. 

But how did Margaret embody her lessons ? 

The second night, she came to Euphra’s room, and 
said : — 

“Shall I tell you about my father to-night? Are you 
able? ” 

Euphra was delighted. It was what she had been hoping 
for all day. 

“ Do tell me. I long to hear about him.” 

So they sat down ; and Margaret began to talk about her 
childhood ; the cottage she lived in ; the fir-wood all around 
it ; the work she used to do ; — her side, in short, of the story 
which, in the commencement of this book, I have partly re- 
lated from Hugh’s side. Summer and winter, spring-time 
and harvest, storm and sunshine, — all came into the tale. Her 
mother came into it often ; and often too, though not so often, 
the grand form of her father appeared, remained for a little 
while, and then passed away. Every time Euphra saw him 
thus in the mirror of Margaret’s memory, she saw him more 
clearly than before ; she felt as if, soon, she should know him 
quite well. Sometimes she asked a question or two ; but 
generally she allowed Margaret’s words to flow unchecked ; 
for she painted her pictures better when the colors did not dry 
between. They talked on, or rather Margaret talked and 
Euphra listened, far into the night. At length Margaret 
stopped suddenly, for she became aware that a long time had 
passed. Looking at the clock on the chimney-piece, she 
said : — 

“I have done wrong to keep you up so late. Come — I 
must get you to bed. You are an invalid, you know, and I 
am your nurse as well as your maid.” 

“ You will come to-morrow night, then ? ” 

“ Yes, I will.” 

“ Then I will go to bed like a good child.” 


890 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


Margaret undressed her, and left her to the healing of 
sleep. 

The next night she spoke again of her father, and what he 
taught her. Euphra had thought much about him ; and at 
every fresh touch which the story gave to the portrait she 
knew him better ; till at last, even when circumstances not 
mentioned before came up, she seemed to have known them 
from the beginning. 

“ What was your father like, Margaret? ” 

Margaret described him very nearly as I have done, from 
Hugh’s account, in the former part of the story. Euphra 
said : — 

“ Ah ! yes. That is almost exactly as I had fancied him. 
Is it not strange?” 

“ It is very natural, I think,” answered Margaret. 

“ I seem now to have known him for years.” 

But what is most worthy of record is, that ever as the 
picture of David grew on the vision of Euphra, the idea of 
God was growing unawares upon her inward sight. She was 
learning more and more about God all the time. The sight of 
human excellence awoke a faint ideal of the divine perfection. 
Faith came of itself, and abode, and grew ; for it needs but 
a vision of the divine, and faith in God is straightway born in 
the soul that beholds it. Thus, faith and sight are one. The 
being of her Father in heaven was no more strange and far off 
from her, when she had seen such a father on earth as 
Margaret’s was. It was not alone David’s faith that begot 
hers, but the man himself was a faith-begetting presence. He 
was the evidence of God with them. Thus he, being dead, 
yet spoke, and the departed man was a present power. 

Euphra began to read the story of the gospel. So did 
Harry. They found much on which to desire enlightenment ; 
and they always applied to Margaret for the light they needed. 
It was long before she ventured to say I think. She always 
said : — 

“ My father used to say — ” or, “ I think my father would 
have said — ” 

It was not until Euphra was in great trouble, some time 
after this, and required the immediate consolation of personal 
testimony, that Margaret spoke as from herself; and then she 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


391 


spoke with positive assurance of faith. She did not then even 
say 1 think , but, I am sure ; I know ; I have seen. 

Many interviews of this sort did not take place between 
them before Euphra, in her turn, began to confide her history 
to Margaret. 

It was a strangely different one, — full of outward event 
and physical trouble ; but, till it approached the last stages, 
wonderfully barren as to inward production or development. 
It was a history of Euphra’s circumstances and peculiarities, 
not of Euphra herself. Till of late, she had scarcely had any 
history. Margaret’s, on the contrary, was a true history : for, 
with much of the monotonous in circumstance, it described 
individual growth, and the change of progress. Where there 
is no change there can be no history ; and as all change is 
either growth or decay, all history must describe progress or 
retrogression. The former had now begun for Euphra as 
well ; and it was one proof of it that she told Margaret all I 
have already recorded for my readers, at least as far as it bore 
against herself. How much more she told her I am unable 
to say; but after she had told it, Euphra was still more 
humble towards Margaret, and Margaret more tender, more 
full of service, if possible, and more devoted to Euphra. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

MARGARET’S SECRET. 

Love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 

Shakespeare. — Sonnet cxvi. 

Margaret could not proceed very far in the story of her 
life, without making some reference to Hugh Sutherland. But 
she’ carefully avoided mentioning his name. Perhaps no one 
less calm, and free from the operation of excitement, could 
have been so successful in suppressing it. 


892 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


11 Ah ! ” said Euphra, one day, “your history is a little like 
mine there ; a tutor comes into them both. Did you not fall 
dreadfully in love with him ? ” 

“ I loved him very much .’ 9 
“ Where is he now ? ” 

“In London, I believe.” 

“ Do you never see him ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Have you never seen him since he left your home — with 
the curious name ? ” 

“ Yes; but not spoken to him.” 

“ Where? ” 

Margaret was silent. Euphra knew her well enough now 
not to repeat the question. 

“ I should have been in love with him, I know.” 

Margaret only smiled. 

Another day, Euphra said : — 

“ What a good boy that Harry is ! And so clever too. Ah ! 
Margaret, I have behaved like the devil to that boy. I wanted 
to have him all to myself, and so kept him a child. Need I 
confess all my ugliest sins? ” 

“Not to me, certainly, dear Miss Cameron. Tell God to 
look into your heart, and take them all out of it.” 

“I will. Ido. I even enticed Mr. Sutherland away from 
him to me, when he was the only real friend he had, that I 
might have them both.” 

“ But you have done your best to make up for it since.” 

“ I have tried a little. I cannot say I have done my best. 
I have been so peevish and irritable.” 

“ You could not quite help that.” 

“ How kind you are to excuse me so ! It makes me so much 
stronger to try again.” 

“ My father used to say that God was always finding every 
excuse for us that could be found ; every true one, you know ; 
not one false one.”* 

“ That does comfort one.” 

After a pause, Euphra resumed : — 

“Mr. Sutherland did me some good, Margaret.” 
l ' I do not wonder at that.” 

“ He made me think less about Count Halkar ; and that waa 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


393 


something, for he haunted me. I did not know then how very 
wicked he was. I did love him once. Oh, how I hate him 
now ! ” 

And she started up and paced the room like a tigress in its 
cage. 

Margaret did not judge this the occasion to read her a lecture 
on the duty of forgiveness. She had enough to do to keep 
from hating the man herself, I suspect. But sho tried to turn 
her thoughts into another channel. 

“Mr. Sutherland loved you very much, Miss Cameron.” 

44 He loved me once,” said poor Euphra, with a sigh. 

“ I saw he did. That was why I began to love you 
too.” 

Margaret had at last unwittingly opened the door of her 
secret. She had told the other reason for loving Euphra. 
But, naturally enough, Euphra could not understand what she 
meant. Perhaps some of my readers, understanding Margaret’s 
words perfectly, and their reference too, may be so far from 
understanding Margaret herself, as to turn upon me and say : — 

4 4 Impossible ! You cannot have understood her or any other 
woman.” 

Well ! 

“ What do you mean, Margaret? ” 

Margaret both blushed and laughed outright. 

44 1 must confess it,” said she at once ; 44 it cannot hurt him 
now : my tutor and yours are the same.” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

44 True.” 

44 And you never spoke all the time you were both at Arn- 
stead ? ” 

44 Not once. He never knew I was in the house.” 

“ How strange ! And you saw he loved me?” 

“ Yes.” 

44 And you were not jealous ? ” 

44 1 did not say that. But I soon found that the only way 
to escape from my jealousy, if the feeling I had was jealousy, 
was to love you too. I did.” 

44 You beautiful creature ! But you could not have loved 
him much.” 

44 1 loved \ im enough to love you for his sake. But why 


394 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


did he stop loving you ? I fear I shall n^t be able to lo^e him 
so much now.” 

“ He could not help it, Margaret. I deserved it.” 

Euphra hid her face in her hands. 

“ He could not have really loved you, then? ” 

“ Which is better to believe, Margaret,” said Euphra, un- 
covering her face, which two tears were lingering down, and 
looking up at her, — “that he never loved me, or that he 
stopped loving me?” 

“ For his sake, the first.” 

“ And for my sake, the second ? ” 

“That depends.” 

“ So it does. He must have found plenty of faults in me. 
But I was not so bad as he thought me when he stopped loving 
me.” 

Margaret’s answer was one of her loving smiles, in which 
her eyes had more share than her lips. 

It would have been unendurable to Euphra, a little while 
before, to find that she had a rival in a servant. Now she 
scarcely regarded that aspect of her position. But she looked 
doubtfully at Margaret, and then said : — 

1 1 How is it that you take it so quietly ? — for your love 
must have been very different from mine. Indeed, I am not 
sure that I loved him at all ; and after I had made up my 
mind to it quite, it did not hurt me so very much. But you 
must have loved him dreadfully.” 

“ Perhaps I did. But I had no anxiety about it.” 

“But that you could not leave to a father such as yours 
even to settle.” 

“ No. But I could to God. I could trust God with what 
I could not speak to my father about. He is my father’s Father, 
you know ; and so more to him and me than we could be to 
each other. The more we love God, the more we love each 
other ; for we find he makes the very love which sometimes we 
foolishly fear to do injustice to, by loving him most. I love 
my father ten times more because he loves God, and because 
God has secrets with him.” 

“ I wish God were a Father to me as he is to you, Margaret.” 

“ But he is your Father, whether you wish it or not. He 
cannot be more your Father than he is. You may be more his 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


395 


child than you are, hut not more than he meant you to he, nor 
more than he made you for. You are infinitely more his child 
than you have grown to yet. He made you altogether his 
child, but you have not given in to it yet.” 

“ Oh ! yes ; I know what you mean. I feel it is true.” 

“ The Prodigal Son was his father’s child. He knew it, 
ai.d gave in to it. He did not say, ‘I wish my father loved 
me enough to treat me like a child again.’ He did not say 
that, but — I ivill arise and go to my father .” 

Euphra made no answer, but wept. Margaret said no more 

Euphra was the first to resume. 

“ Mr. Sutherland was very kind, Margaret. He promised 
— and I know he will keep his promise — to do all he could to 
help me. I hope he is finding out where that wicked count is.” 

“ Write to him, and ask him to come and see you. He does 
not know where you are.” 

“ But I don’t know where he is.” 

“I do.” 

“ Do you ? ” rejoined Euphra, with some surprise. 

“ But he does not know where I am. I will give you his 
address, if you like.” 

Euphra pondered a little. She would have liked very much 
to see him, for she was anxious to know of his success. The 
love she had felt for him was a very small obstacle to their 
meeting now ; for her thoughts had been occupied with affairs, 
before the interest of which the poor love she had then been 
capable of had melted away and vanished, — vanished, that is 
in all that was restrictive and engrossing in its character. 
But now that she knew the relation that had existed between 
Margaret and him, she shrunk from doing anything that might 
seem to Margaret to give Euphra an opportunity of regaining 
his preference. Not that she had herself the smallest hope, 
even had she had the smallest desire of doing so ; but she 
would not even suggest the idea of being Margaret’s rival. 
At length she answered : — 

“No, thank you, Margaret. As soon as he has anything 
to report, he will write to Arnstead, and Mrs. Horton will for- 
ward me the letter. No — it is quite unnecessary.” 

Euphra’ s health was improving a little, though still she was 
far from strong. 


S90 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

FOREBODINGS. 


Faust. 

Good Angel. 
Bad Angel. 
Faust. 

Bad Angel. 
Good Angel. 
Bad Angel. 


If heaven was made for man, ’twas made for me. 
Faustus, repent ; yet Heaven will pity thee. 
Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee. 

Be I a devil, yet God may pity me. 

Too late. 

Never too late if Faustus will repent. 

If thou repent, devils will tear thee in pieces. 


Old Man. I see an angel hover o’er thy head, 

And with a vial full of precious grace, 

Offers to pour the same into thy soul. 

Marlowe. — Doctor Fax *txu. 


Mr. Appleditch had had some business-misfortunes, not of a 
heavy nature, but sufficient to cast a gloom over the house in 
Dervish Town, and especially over the face of his spouse, who 
had set her heart on a new carpet for her drawing-room, and 
feared she ought not to procure it now. It is wonderful how 
conscientious some people are towards their balance at the 
banker’s. How the drawing-room, however, could come to 
want a new carpet is something mysterious, except there is a 
peculiar power of decay inherent in things deprived of use. 
These influences operating, however, she began to think that 
the two scions of grocery were not drawing nine shillings’ 
worth a week of the sap of divinity. This she hinted to Mr. 
Appleditch. It was resolved to give Hugh warning. 

As it would involve some awkwardness to state reasons, 
Mrs. Appleditch resolved to quarrel with him, as the easiest 
way of prefacing his discharge. It was the way she took with 
her maids-of-all-work ; for it was grand in itself, and always left 
her with a comfortable feeling of injured dignity. 

As a preliminary course, she began to treat him with still 
less politeness than before. Hugh was so careless of her be- 
havior, that this made no impression upon him. But he came 
to understand it all afterwards, from putting together the re- 
marks of the children, and the partial communications of Mr. 
Appleditch to Miss Talbot, which that good lady innocently 
imparted to her lodger. 

At length, one day, she came into the room where Hugh 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


397 


was more busy in teaching than his pupils were in learning, 
and seated herself by the fire to watch for an opportunity. 
This wa3 soon found. For the boys, rendered still more in- 
attentive by the presence of their mother, could not be induced 
to fix the least thought upon the matter in hand; so that 
Hugh was compelled to go over the same thing again and again, 
without success. At last he said : — 

“I am afraid, Mrs. Appleditch, I must ask you to interfere, 
for I cannot get any attention from the boys to-day.” 

“ And how could it be otherwise, Mr. Sutherland, when you 
keep wearing them out with going over and over the same 
thing, till they are sick of it ? Why don’t you go on ? ” 

“How can I go on when they have not learned the thing 
they are at ? That would be to build the chimneys before the 
walls.” 

“ It is very easy to be witty, sir ; but I beg you will behave 
more respectfully to me in the presence of my children, inno- 
cent lambs ! ” 

Looking round at the moment, Hugh caught in his face 
what the eldest lamb had intended for his back, — agrimace hide- 
ous enough to have procured him instant promotion in the 
kingdom of apes. The mother saw it too, and added : — 

“ You see you cannot make them respect you. Really, Mr. 
Sutherland ! ” 

Hugh was about to reply, to the effect that it was useless, 
in such circumstances, to attempt teaching them at all, some 
utterance of which sort was watched for as the occasion for his 
instant dismission ; but at that very moment a carriage and pair 
pulled sharply up at the door, with more than the usual amount 
of quadrupedation, and mother and sons darted simultaneously 
to the window. 

“ My ! ” cried Johnnie, “ what a rum go ! Isn’t that a jolly 
carriage, Pe«tie?” 

“ Papa’s bought a carriage ! ” shouted Peetie. 

“ Be quiet, children,” said their mother, as she saw a foot- 
man get down and approach the door. 

“ Look at that buffer,” said Johnnie. “Do come and see 
this grand footman, Mr. Sutherland. He’s such a gentleman ! ” 

A box on the ear from his mother silenced him. The ser- 
vant, entering with some perturbation a momert after, ad- 


398 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


dressed her mistress, for she dared not address any one else 
while she was in the room : — 

“ Please’m, the carriage is astin’ after Mr. Sutherland.” 

“Mr. Sutherland?” 

“ Yes’m.” 

The lady turned to Mr. Sutherland, who, although surprised 
as well, was not inclined to show his surprise to Mrs. Apple- 
ditch. 

“I did not know you had carriage-friends, Mr. Suther- 
land,” said she, with a toss of her head. 

“ Neither did I,” answered Hugh. “ But I will go and see 
who it is.” 

When he reached the street, he found Harry on the pave- 
ment, who, having got out of the carriage, and not having been 
asked into the house, was unable to stand still from impatience. 
As soon as he saw his tutor, he bounded to him, and threw 
his arms round his neck, standing as they were in the open 
street. Tears of delight filled his eyes. 

“ Come, come, come,” said Harry ; “we all want you.” 

“ Who wants me?” 

“ Mrs. Elton and Euphra and me. Come, get in.” 

And he pulled Hugh towards the carriage. 

“ I cannot go with you now. I have pupils here.” 

Harry’s face fell. 

“ When will you come ? ” 

“ In half an hour.” 

“ Hurrah ! I shall be back exactly in half an hour then. 
Do be ready, please, Mr. Sutherland.” 

“I will.” 

Harry jumped into the carriage, telling the coachman to 
drive where he pleased, and be back at the same place in half 
an hour. Hugh returned into the house. 

As may be supposed, Margaret was the means of this happy 
meeting. Although she saw plainly enough that Euphra 
would like to see Hugh, she did not for some time make up 
her mind to send for him. The circumstances which made her 
resolve to do so were these : — 

For some days Euphra seemed to be gradually regaining her 
health and composure of mind. One evening, after a longer 
talk than usual, Margaret had left her in bed, and had gone 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


899 


to her own room. She was just preparing to get into bed her- 
self, when a knock at her door startled her, and, going to it, 
she saw Euphra standing there, pale as death, with nothing on 
her but her night-gown, notwithstanding the bitter cold of an 
early and severe frost. She thought at first she must be walk- 
ing in her sleep, hut the scared intelligence of her open eyes 
soon satisfied her that it was not so 

“What is the matter, dear Miss Cameron?” she said, as 
calmly as she could. 

“He is coming. He wants me. If he calls me, I 
must go.” 

“ No, you shall not go,” rejoined Margaret, firmly. 

“I must, I must,” answered Euphra; wringing her hands. 

“ Do come in,” said Margaret; “you must not stand there 
in the cold.” 

“ Let me get into your bed.” 

“ Better let me go with you to yours. That will be more 
comfortable for you.” 

“ Oh, yes ; please do.” 

Margaret threw a shawl round Euphra, and went back with 
her to her room. 

“He wants me. He wants me. He will call me soon,” 
said Euphra, in an agonized whisper, as soon as the door was 
shut. “ What shall I do ? ” 

“ Come to bed first, and we will talk about it there.” 

As soon as they were in bed, Margaret put her arm round 
Euphra, who was trembling with cold and fear, and said : — 

“ Has this man any right to call you? ” 

“No, no,” answered Euphra, vehemently. 

“ Then don't go.” 

“ But I am afraid of him.” 

“Defy him, in God’s name.” 

“But, besides the fear, there is something that I can’t describe, 
that always keeps telling me — no, not telling me, pushing 
me — no, drawing me, as if I could not rest a moment till I 
go. I cannot describe it. I hate to go, and yet I feel that if 
I were cold in my grave, I must rise and go if he called me. 
I wish I could tell you what it is like. It is as if some demon 
were shaking my soul till I yielded and went. Oh ! don't 
despise me. I can’t help it.” 


400 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ My darling, I don’t, I can’t, despise you. You shall not 
go to him.” 

“ But I must,” answered she, with a despairing faintness 
more convincing than any vehemence ; and then began to weep 
with a slow, hopeless weeping, like the rain of a November 
eve. 

Margaret got out of bed. Euphra thought she was offended. 
Starting up, she clasped her hands, and said : — 

“0 Margaret ! I’ won’t cry. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave 
me.” 

She entreated like a chidden child. 

“ No, no, I didn’t mean to leave you for a moment. Lie 
down again, dear, and cry as much as you like. I am going 
to read a little hit out of the New Testament to you.” 

“Iam afraid I can’t listen to it.” 

“Never mind. Don’t try. I want to read it.” 

Margaret got a New Testament, and read part of that chap- 
ter of St. John’s Gospel which speaks about human labor and 
the bread of life. She stopped at these words : — 

“ For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, 
but the will of Him that sent me.” 

Euphra’s tears had ceased. The sound of Margaret’s voice, 
which, if it lost in sweetness by becoming more Scotch when 
she read the gospel, yet gained thereby in pathos, and 
the power of the blessed words themselves had soothed the 
troubled spirit a little, and she lay quiet. 

“ The count is not a good man, Miss Cameron? ” 

“ You know he is not, Margaret. He is the worst man alive.” 

“ Then it cannot be God’s will that you should go to him.” 

“ But one does many things that are not God’s will.” 

“ But it is God’s will that you should not go to him.” 

Euphra lay silent for a few moments. Suddenly she ex- 
claimed, “Then I must not go to him,” — got out of bed, 
threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and, holding up her 
clasped hands, said, in low tones that sounded as if forced from 
her by agony : — 

“ I won’t ! I won’t ! 0 God, I will not. Help me, help 

me ! ” 

Margaret knelt beside her, and put her arm round her. 
Euphra spoke no more, but remained kneeling, with her ex- 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


401 


tended arms and clasped hands lying on the bed, and her head 
laid between them. At length, Margaret grew alarmed, and 
looked at her. But she found that she was in a sweet sleep. 
She gently disengaged herself, and, covering her up soft and 
warm, left her to sleep out her God-sent sleep undisturbed, 
while she sat beside, and watched for her waking. 

She slept thus for an hour. Then lifting her head, and see- 
ing Margaret, she rose quietly, as if from her prayers, and 
said with a smile : — 

“ Margaret, I was dreaming that I had a mother.” 

u So you have, somewhere.” 

“ Yes, so I have, somewhere,” she repeated, and crept into 
bed like a child, lay down, and was asleep again in a moment. 

Margaret watched her for another hour, and then, seeing no 
signs of restlessness, but that on the contrary her sleep was 
profound, lay down beside her, and soon shared in that repose 
which to weary women and men is God’s best gift. 

She rose at her usual hour the next day, and was dressed 
before Euphra awoke. It was a cold gray December morning, 
with the hoar-frost lying thick on the roofs of the houses. 
Euphra opened her eyes while Margaret was busy lighting the 
fire. Seeing that she was there, she closed them again, and 
fell once more fast asleep. Before she woke again, Margaret 
had some tea ready for her; after taking which, she felt able 
to get up. She rose looking more bright and hopeful than 
Margaret had seen her before. 

But Margaret, who watched her intently through the day, 
saw a change come over her cheer. Her face grew pale and 
troubled. Now and then her eyes were fixed on vacancy ; and 
again she would look at Margaret with a woe-begone expression 
of countenance ; but presently, as if recollecting herself, would 
smile and look cheerful for a moment. Margaret saw that the 
conflict was coming on, if not already begun, — that at least its 
shadow was upon her ; and thinking that if she could have a 
talk with Hugh about what he had been doing, it would com- 
fort her a little, and divert her thoughts from herself, even if 
no farther or more pleasantly than to the count, she let Harry 
know Hugh’s address, as given in the letter to her father- She 
was certain that, if Harry succeeded in finding him, nothing 
more was necessary to insure his being brought to Mrs. Elton's. 

26 


402 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


As we have seen, Harry had traced him to Buccleuch Ter* 
race. 

Hugh re-entered the house in the same mind in which he had 
gone out; namely, that after Mrs. Appleditch’s behavior to 
him before his pupils, he could not remain their tutor any 
longer, however great his need might be of the pittance he 
received for his services. 

But although Mrs. Appleditch’s first feeling had been jeal- 
ousy of Hugh’s acquaintance with “ carriage people,” the 
toadyism which is so essential an element of such jealousy 
had by this time revived ; and when Hugh was proceeding to 
finish the lesson he had begun, intending it to be his last, she 
said : — 

“Why didn’t you ask your friend into the drawing-room, 
Mr. Sutherland?” 

“ Good gracious ! The drawing-room ! ” thought Hugh — 
but answered, “ He will fetch me when the lesson is over.” 

“Iam sure, sir, any friends of yours that like to call upon 
you here will be very welcome. It will be more agreeable to 
you to receive them here, of course ; for your accommodation 
at poor Miss Talbot’s is hardly suitable for such visitors.” 

“ I am sorry to say, however,” answered Hugh, “ that after 
the way you have spoken to me to-day, in the presence of my 
pupils, I cannot continue my relation to them any longer.” 

“Ho! ho! ” retorted the lady, indignation and scorn ming- 
ling with mortification ; “ our grand visitors have set our backs 
up° Very well, Mr. Sutherland, you will oblige me by leav- 
ing the house at once. Don’t trouble yourself, pray, to finish 
the lesson. I will pay you for it all the same. Anything to 
get rid of a man who insults me before the very faces of my 
innocent lambs ! And please to remember,” she added, as she 
pulled out her purse, while Hugh was collecting some books he 
had lent the boys, “that when you were starving, my husband 
and I took you in and gave you employment out of charity — 
pure charity, Mr. Sutherland. Here is your money.” 

“ Good-morning, Mrs. Appleditch,” said Hugh ; and walked 
out with his books under his arm, leaving her with the money 
in her hand. 

He had to knock his feet on the pavement in front of the 
house, to keep them from freezing, for half an hour, before the 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


403 


carriage arrived to take him away. As soon as it came up, 
he jumped into it, and was carried off in triumph by Harry. 

Mrs. Elton received him kindly. Euphra held out her hand 
with a slight blush, and the quiet familiarity of an old friend. 
Hugh could almost have fallen in love with her again, fiom 
compassion for her pale, worn face, and subdued expression. 

Mrs. Elton went out in the carriage almost directly, and 
Euphra begged Harry to leave them alone, as she had some- 
thing to talk to Mr. Sutherland about. 

“ Have you found any trace of Count Halkar, Hugh? ” she 
said, the moment they were by themselves. 

“Iam very sorry to say I have not. I have done my best.” 

“I am quite sure of that. I just wanted to tell you that, 
from certain indications, which no one could understand so well 
as myself, I think you will have more chance of finding him 
now.” 

“Iam delighted to hear it,” responded Hugh. “ If I only 
had him ! ” 

Euphra sighed, paused, and then said : — 

“ But I am not sure of it. I think he is in London; but 
he may be in Bohemia, for anything I know. I shall, how- 
ever, in all probability, know more about him within a few 
days.” 

Hugh resolved to go at once to Falconer, and communicate 
to him what Euphra had told him. But he said nothing to 
her as to the means by which he had tried to discover the 
count ; for although he felt sure that he had done right in tell- 
ing Falconer all about it, he was afraid lest Euphra, not know- 
ing what sort of a man he was, might not like it. Euphra, on 
her part, did not mention Margaret’s name ; for she had 
begged her not to do so. 

“ You will tell me when you know yourself? ” 

“ Perhaps. I will, if I can. I do wish you could get the 
ring. I have a painful feeling that it gives him power over me.” 

“That can only be a nervous fancy, surely,” Hugh ven- 
tured to say. 

“ Perhaps it is. I don’t know. But still, without that, there 
are plenty of reasons for wishing to recover it. He will put 
it to a bad use, if he can. But for your sake, especially, I 
wiBh we could get it.” 


404 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ Thank you. You were always kind.” 

“ No.” she replied, without lifting her eyes ; “ I brought il 
all upon you.” 

“ But you could not help it.” 

“ Not at the moment. But all that led to it was my fault. ” 

She paused ; then suddenly resumed : — 

“ I will confess. Do you know what gave rise to the reports 
of the house being haunted?” 

“ No.” 

“It was me wandering about it at night, looking for that very 
ring, to give to the count. It was shameful. But I did. 
Those reports prevented me from being found out. But I hope 
not many ghosts are so miserable as I was. You remember 
my speaking to you of Mr. Arnold’s jewels? ” 

“Yes, perfectly.” 

“ I wanted to find out, through you, where the ring was. 
But I had no intention of involving you.” 

“ I am sure you had not.” 

“ Don’t be too sure of anything about me. I don’t know 
what I might have been led to do. But I am very sorry. 
Do forgive me.” 

“ I cannot allow that I have anything to forgive. But tel) 
me, Euphra, were you the creature in white that I saw in the 
Ghost’s Walk one night? I don’t mean the last time.” 

“ Very likely,” she answered, bending her head yet lower, 
with a sigh. 

“ Then who was the creature in black that met you? Ano 
what became of you then? ” 

“ Did you see Aer?” rejoined Euphra, turning paler still. 
“ I fainted at sight of her. I took her for the nun that hangs 
in that horrid room.” 

“So did I,” said Hugh. “But you could not have lain 
long ; for I went up to the spot where you vanished, and 
found nothing.” 

“ I suppose I got into the shrubbery before I fell. Or the 
count dragged me in. But was that really a ghost ? I feel 
now as if it was a good messenger, whether ghost or not, come 
to warn me, if I had had the courage to listen. I wish I had 
taken the warning.” 


DAVID ELGINDROD. 


405 


They talked about these and other things, till Mrs. Elton, 
who had made Hugh promise to stay to lunch, returned. 
When they were seated at table, the kind-hearted woman 
said : — 

“ Now, Mr. Sutherland, when will you begin again with 
Harry? ” 

“ I do not quite understand you,” answered Hugh. 

“Of course you will come and give him lessons, poor boy. 
He will be broken-hearted if you don’t.” 

“I wish I could. But I cannot — at least yet; for 1 
know his father was dissatisfied with me. That was one of 
the reasons that made him send Harry to London.” 

Harry looked wretchedly disappointed, but said nothing. 

“ I never heard him say anything of the sort.” 

“I am sure of it, though. I am very sorry he has mis- 
taken me; but he will know me better some day.” 

“I will take all the responsibility,” persisted Mrs. Elton. 

“ But unfortunately the responsibility sticks too fast for 
you to take it. I cannot get rid of my share, if I would.” 

“You are too particular. I am sure Mr. Arnold never 
could have meant that. This is my house too.” 

“ But Harry is his boy. If you will let me come and see 
him sometimes, I shall be very thankful, though. I may be 
useful to him without giving him lessons.” 

“ Thank you,” said Harry, with delight. 

“ Well, well ! I suppose you are so much in request in 
London that you won’t miss him for a pupil.” 

“ On the contrary, I have not a single engagement. If you 
could find me one, I should be exceedingly obliged to you.” 

“ Dear ! dear ! dear ! ” said Mrs. Elton. “ Then you shall 
have Harry.” 

“ Oh ! yes ; please take me,” said Harry, beseechingly. 

“No, I cannot. I must not.” 

Mrs. Elton rang the bell. 

“James, tell the coachman I want the carriage in an 
hour.” 

Mrs. Elton was as submissive to her coachman as ladies who 
have carriages generally are, and would not have dreamed of 
ordering the horses out so soon again for herself ; but she for- 
got everything else when a friend was in need of help, and 


406 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


became perfectly pachydermatous to the offendea looks or 
indignant hints of that important functionary. 

Within a few minutes after Hugh took his leave, Mrs. 
Elton was on her way to repeat a visit she had already paid 
the same morning, and to make several other calls, with tho 
express object of finding pupils for Hugh. But in this she 
was not so successful as she had expected. In fact, no one 
whom she could think of wanted such services at present. 
She returned home quite down-hearted, and all but convinced 
that nothing could be done before the approach of the London 
season. 


CHAPTER LXIY. 


STRIFE. 

They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet, 

An adder and a snake; 

But haud me fast, let me not pass, 

Gin ye would be my maik. 

They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet, 

An adder and an aske ; 

They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet, 

A bale that burns fast. 

They’ll shape me in your arms, Janet, 

A dove, but and a swan ; 

And last, they’ll shape me in your arms 
A mother-naked man: 

Cast your green mantle over me — 

An sae shall I be wan. 

Scotch Ballad: Tamlane, 


As soon as Hugh had left the house, Margaret hastened to 
Euphra. She found her in her own room, a little more cheer- 
ful, but still strangely depressed. This appearance increased 
towards the evening, till her looks became quite haggard, 
revealing an inward conflict of growing agony. Margaret 
remained with her. 

Just before dinner, the upstairs bell, whose summons 
Margaret was accustomed to obey, rang, and she went down. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


407 


Mrs. Elton detained her for a few minutes. The moment she 
was at liberty, she flew to Euphra’s room by the back stair- 
case. But, as she ascended, she was horrified to meet Euphra, 
in a cloak and thick veil, creeping down the stairs like a thief. 
Without saying a word, the strong girl lifted her in her arms 
as if she had been a child, and carried her back to her room. 

Euphra neither struggled nor spoke. Margaret laid her on 
her couch, and sat down beside her. She lay without moving, 
and, although wide awake, gave no other sign of existence 
than an occasional low moan, that seemed to come from a heart 
pressed almost to death. 

Having lain thus for an hour, she broke the silence. 

“ Margaret, do you despise me dreadfully? ” 

“ No, not in the least / ’ 

“ Yet you found me going to do what I knew was wrong/’ 

“ You had not made yourself strong by thinking about the 
will of God. Had you, dear ? ” 

“ No. I will tell you how it was. I had been tormented 
with the inclination to go to him, and had been resisting it till 
I was worn out, and could hardly bear it more. Suddenly all 
grew calm within me, and I seemed to hate Count Halkar no 
longer. I thought with myself how easy it would be to put a 
stop to this dreadful torment, just by yielding to it — only 
this once. I thought I should then be stronger to resist the 
next time ; for this was wearing me out so, that I must yield 
the next time, if I persisted now. But what seemed to justify 
me, was the thought that so I should find out where he was, 
and be able to tell Hugh ; and then he would get the ring for 
me, and perhaps that would deliver me. But it was very 
wrong of me. I forgot all about the will of God. I will not 
go again, Margaret. Do you think I may try again to fight 
him? ” 

“ That is just what you must do. All that God requires 
of you is to try again. God’s child must be free. Do try, 
dear Miss Cameron.” 

“I think I could, if you would call me Euphra. You are 
so strong, and pure, and good, Margaret ! I wish I had 
never had any thoughts but such as you have, you beautiful 
creature ! Oh, how glad I am that you found jpe ! Do 
watch me always.” 


408 


DAVID ELGINBliOD. 


‘ c 1 will call you Euphra. I will be your sister-servant — • 
anything you ike, if you will only try again.” 

“ Thank ycu, with all my troubled heart, dear Margaret ? 
I will indeed try again.” 

She sprang from the couch in a sudden agony, and, grasping 
Margaret by the arm, looked at her with such a terror- 
stricken face, that she began to fear she was losing her 
reason. 

“ Margaret,” she said, as if with the voice as of one just 
raised from the dead, speaking with all the charnel damps in 
her throat, “ could it be that I am in love with him still? ” 

Margaret shuddered, but did not lose her self-possession. 

“No, no, Euphra, darling. You were haunted with him, 
and so tired that you were not able to hate him any longer. 
Then you began to give way to him. That was all. There 
was no love in that.” 

Euphra’ s grasp relaxed. 

“ Do you think so? ” 

“ Yes.” 

A pause followed. 

“ Do you think God cares to have me do his will? Is it 
anything to him ? ” 

“lam sure of it. Why did he make you else? But it is 
not for the sake of being obeyed that he cares for it, but for 
the sake of serving you, and making you blessed with his 
blessedness. He does not think about himself, but about you.” 

“ Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! I must not go.” 

“ Let me read to you again, Euphra.” 

“Yes, please do, Margaret.” 

She read the fortieth chapter of Isaiah, one of her father’s 
favorite chapters, where all the strength and knowledge of 
God are urged to a height, that they may fall in overwhelming 
profusion upon the wants and fears and unbelief of his children. 
How should he that calleth the stars by their names forget his 
people ? 

While she read, the cloud melted away from Euphra’s face ; 
a sweet sleep followed, and the paroxysm was over for the time. 

Was Euphra insane ? and were these the first accesses of 
daily fits of madness, which had been growing and approaching 
for who could tell ]iow long ? 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


409 


Even if she were mad, or going mad, was not this the right 
way to treat her ? I wonder how often the spiritual cure of 
faith in the Son of Man, the Great Healer, has been tried on 
those possessed with our modern demons. Is it proved that 
insanity has its origin in the physical disorder which, it is now 
said, can be shown to accompany it invariably ? Let it be so ; 
it yet appears to me that if the physician would, like the Son 
of Man himself, descend as it were into the disorganized world 
in which the consciousness of his patient exists, and receiving 
as fact all that he reveals to him of its condition, — for fact it 
is, of a very real sort, — introduce, by all the means that 
sympathy can suggest, the one central cure for evil, spiritual 
and material, namely, the truth of the Son of Man, the vision 
of the perfect Friend and Helper, with the revelation of the 
promised liberty of obedience, — if he did this, it seems to me 
that cures might still be wrought as marvellous as those of the 
ancient time. 

It seems to me, too, that that can be but an imperfect 
religion, as it would be a poor salvation, from which one corner 
of darkness may hide us; from whose blessed health and 
freedom a disordered brain may snatch us ; making us hope- 
less outcasts, till first the physician, the student of physical 
laws, shall interfere and restore us to a sound mind, or the 
great God’s-angel, Death, crumble the soul-oppressing brain, 
with its thousand phantoms of pain and fear and horror, into a 
film of dust in the hollow of the deserted skull. 

Hugh repaired immediately to Falconer’s chambers, where 
he was more likely to find him during the day than in the 
evening. He was at home. He told him of his interview 
with Euphra, and her feeling that the count was not far off. 

“ Do you think there can be anything in it?” asked he, 
when he had finished his relation. 

11 1 think very likely,” answered his friend. “I will be 
more on the outlook than ever. It may, after all, be through 
the lady herself that we shall find the villain. If she were to 
fall into one of her trances, now, I think it almost certain she 
would go to him. She ought to be carefully watched and 
followed, if that should take place. Let me know all that you 
learn about her. Go and see her again to-morrow, that we 


410 


DAVIL ELGINBROD. 


may be kept informed of her experiences, so far as she thinks 
proper to tell them.” 

“ I will,” said Hugh, and took his leave. 

But Margaret, who knew Euphra’s condition, both spiritual 
and physical, better than any other, had far different objects 
for her, through means of the unholy attraction which the 
count exercised over her, than the discovery of the stolen ring. 
She was determined that neither sleeping nor waking should 
she follow his call, or dance to his piping. She should resist 
to the last, in the name of God, and so redeem her lost will 
from the power of this devil, to whom she had foolishly sold it. 

The next day, the struggle evidently continued ; and it 
had such an effect on Euphra, tha Margaret could not help 
feeling very anxious about the result as regarded her health, 
even if she should be victorious in the contest. But not for 
one moment did Margaret quail ; for she felt convinced, come 
of it what might, that the only hope for Euphra lay in resist- 
ance. Death, to her mind, was simply nothing in the balance 
with slavery of such a sort. 

Once — but evidently in a fit of absence — Euphra rose, 
went to the door, and opened it. But she instantly dashed it 
to again, and, walking slowly back, resumed her seat on the 
couch. Margaret came to her from the other side of the bed, 
where she had been working by the window for the last 
quarter of an hour, for the sake of the waning light. 

“What is it, dear?” she said. 

“0 Margaret! are you there? I did not know you were 
in the room. I found myself at the door before I knew what 
I was doing.” 

“But you came back of yourself this time.” 

“Yes, I did. But I still feel inclined to go.” 

“ There is no sin in that, so long as you do not encourage 
the feeling, or yield to it.” 

“ I hate it.” 

“ You will soon be free from it. Keep on courageously, 
dear sister. You will be in liberty and joy soon.” 

“ God grant it.” 

“ He will, Euphra. Iam sure he will.” 

“I am sure you know, or you would not say it.” 

<1 knock came to the street door. Euphra started, and sal 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


411 


in the attitude of a fearful listener. A message was presently 
brought her. that Mr. Sutherland was in the drawing-room, 
and wished to see her. 

Euphra rose immediately, and went to him. Margaret, who 
did not quite feel that she could he trusted yet, removed to a 
room behind the drawing-room, whence she could see Euphra 
if she passed to go downstairs. 

Hugh asked her if she could tell him anything more about 
Count Halkar. 

“Only,” she answered, “that I am still surer of his being 
near me.” 

“How do you know it ? ” 

“ I need not mind telling you, for I have told you before 
that he has a kind of supernatural power over me. I know it 
by his drawing me towards him. It is true I might feel it just 
the same whether he was in America or in London; but I do 
not think he would care to do it, if he were so far off. I 
know him well enough to know that he would not wish for me 
except for some immediate advantage to himself.” 

“But what is the use of his doing so, when you don’t know 
where he is to be found? ” 

< ‘ I should go straight to him, without knowing where I was 
going.” 

Hugh rose in haste. 

“Put on your bonnet and cloak, and come with me. I will 
take care of you. Lead me to him, and the ring shall soon 
be in your hands again.” 

Euphra hesitated, half rose, but sat down immediately. 

“No, no! Not for worlds,” she said. “Do not tempt 
me. I must not — I dare not — I will not go.” 

“ But I shall be with you. I will take care of you. Don’t 
you think I am able, Euphra?” 

“Oh, yes! quite able. But I must not go anywhere at 
lhat mans bidding.” 

“ But it won’t be at his bidding; it will be at mine.” 

“ Ah ! that alters the case rather, does it not? I wonder 
what Margaret would say.” 

“Margaret! What Margaret? ” said Hugh. 

“Oh, my new maid,” answered Euphra, recollecting her- 
self. “ Not being well at present, she is my nurse.” 


412 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ We shall take a cab as soon as we get to the corner.” 

“ I don’t think the count would be able to guide the horse,” 
said Euphra, with a smile. “ I must walk. But I should 
like to go. I will. It would be such a victory to catch him 
in his own toils.” 

She rose and ran upstairs. In a few minutes she came 
down again, cloaked and veiled. But Margaret met her as 
she descended, and, leading her into the back drawing-room, 
said : — 

“Are you going, Euphra? ” 

“Yes; but I am going with Mr. Sutherland,” answered 
Euphra, in a defensive tone. “ It is to please him, and not to 
obey the count.” 

“Are you sure it is all to please Mr. Sutherland? If it 
were, I don’t think you would be able to guide him right. Is 
it not to get rid of your suffering by yielding to temptation, 
Euphra ? At all events, if you go, even should Mr. Suther- 
land be successful with him, you will never feel that you have 

overcome him, or he that he has lost you. He will still hold 

you fast. Don’t go. I am sure you are deceiving yourself.” 

Euphra stood for a moment, and pouted like a naughty child. 
Then, suddenly throwing her arms about Margaret’s neck, she 
kissed her, and said : — 

“I won’t go, Margaret. Here, take my things upstairs 
for me.” 

She threw off her bonnet and cloak, and rejoined Hugh in 
the drawing-room. 

“I can’t go,” she said. “I must not go. I should be 

yielding to him, and it would make a slave of me all my 

life.” 

“ It is our only chance for the ring,” said Hugh. 

Again Euphra hesitated and wavered; but again she con- 
quered. 

“I cannot help it,” she said, “I would rather not have 
the ring than go — if you will forgive me.” 

“0 Euphra!” replied Hugh. “You know it is not for 
myself.” 

“ I do know it. You won’t mind, then, if I don’t go ? ” 

“ Certainly not, if you have made up your mind. You 
must have a good reason for it.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


413 


“Indeed I have.” And even already she felt that resist- 
ance brought its own reward. 

Hugh went almost immediately, in order to make his report 
to Falconer, with whom he had an appointment for the 
purpose. 

“ She is quite right,” said Falconer. “ I do not think, in 
the relation in which she stands to him, that she could safely 
do otherwise. But it seems to me very likely that this will 
turn out well for our plans, too. Let her persist, and in all 
probability he will not only have to resign her perforce, but 
will so far make himself subject to her in turn, as to seek her 
who will not go to him. He will pull upon his own rope till 
he is drawn to the spot where he has fixed it. What remains 
for you and me to do, is to keep a close watch on the house 
and neighborhood. Most likely we shall find the villain before 
long.” 

“ Do you really think so ? ” 

“ The whole affair is mysterious, and has to do with laws 
with which we are most imperfectly acquainted; but this 
seems to me a presumption worth acting upon. Is there no 
one in the house on whom you could depend for assistance, — 
for information, at least? ” 

“ Yes. There is the same old servant that Mrs. Elton had 
with her at Arnstead. He is a steady old fellow, and has been 
very friendly with me.” 

“ Well, what I would advise is, that you should find your- 
self quarters as near the spot as possible ; and, besides keeping 
as much of a personal guard upon the house as you can, 
engage the servant you mention to let you know the moment 
the count makes his appearance. It will probably be towards 
night when he calls, for such a man may have reasons as well 
as instincts to make him love the darkness rather than the light. 
You had better go at once ; and when you have found a place, 
leave or send the address here to me, and towards nightfall I 
will join you. But we may have to watch for several days. 
We must not be too sanguine.” 

Almost without a word, Hugh went to do as Falconer said. 
The only place he could find suitable was a public house at 
the corner of a back street, where the men-servants of the 
neighborhood used to resort. He succeeded in securing a 


DAVID ELGINBBOD. 


414 

private room in it, for a week, and immediately sent Falconer 
word of his locality. He then called a second time at Mrs. 
Elton’s, and asked to see the butler. When he came, — 

“Irwan,” said he, “has Herr von Funkelstein called here 
to-day? ” 

“No, sir, he has not.” 

“You would know him, would you hot ? ” 

“Yes, sir; perfectly.” 

“Well, if he should call to-night, or to-morrow, or any 
time within the next few days, let me know the moment he is 
in the house. You will find me at the Golden Staff, round 
the corner. It is of the utmost importance that I should see 
him at once. But do not let him know that any one wants to 
see him. You shall not repent helping me in this affair. I 
know I can trust you.” 

Hugh had fixed him with his eyes, before he began to ex- 
plain his wishes. He had found out that this was the best way 
of securing attention from inferior natures, and that it was 
especially necessary with London servants ; for their super- 
ciliousness is cowed by it, and the superior will brought to 
bear upon theirs. It is the only way a man without a car- 
riage has to command attention from such. Irwan was not 
one 3 of this sort. He was a country servant, for one difference. 
But Hugh made his address as impressive as possible. 

“ I will with pleasure, sir,” answered Irwan, and Hugh felt 
tolerably sure of him. 

Falconer came. They ordered some supper, and sat till 
eleven o’clock. There being then no chance of a summons, 
they went out together. Passing the house, they saw light in 
one upper window only. That light would burn there all 
night, for it was in Euphra’s room. They went on, Hugh 
accompanying Falconer in one of his midnight walks through 
London, as he had done repeatedly before. From such com- 
panionship and the scenes to which Falconer introduced him, 
he had gathered this fruit, that he began to believe in God for 
the sake of the wretched men and women he saw in the world. 
At first, it was his own pain at the sight of such misery that 
drove him, for consolation, to hope in God ; so, at first, it was 
for his own sake. But as he saw more of them, and grew to 
love them more, he felt that the only hope for them lay in the 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


415 


love of God ; and he hoped in God for them. He saw. too, that 
a God not both humanly and absolutely divine, a G od less than 
that God shadowed forth in the Redeemer of men, would not 
do. But, thinking about God thus, and hoping in him for his 
brothers and sisters, he began to love God. Then, last of all, 
that he might see in him one to whom he could abandon every* 
thing, that he might see him perfect and all in all and as he 
must be, — for the sake of God himself, he believed in him as 
the Saviour of these his sinful and suffering kin. 

As early as was at all excusable, the following morning, he 
called on Euphra. The butler said that she had not come 
down yet, but he would send up his name. A message was 
brought back that Miss Cameron was sorry not to see him, but 
she had had a bad night, and was quite unable to get up. 
Irwan replied to his inquiry, that the count had not called. 
Hugh withdrew to the Golden Staff. 

A bad night it had been indeed. As Euphra slept well the 
first part of it, and had no attack such as she had had upon 
both the preceding nights, Margaret had hoped the worst 
was over. Still she laid herself only within the threshold of 
sleep, ready to wake at the least motion. 

In the middle of the night, she felt Euphra move. She lay 
still to see what she would do. Euphra slipped out of bed, 
and partly dressed herself ; then went to her wardrobe, and 
put on a cloak with a large hood, which she drew over hei 
head. Margaret lay with a dreadful aching at her heart. 
Euphra went towards the door. Margaret called her, but she 
made no answer. Margaret flew to the door, and reached it 
before her. Then, to her intense delight, she saw that 
Euphra’s eyes were closed. Just as she laid her hand on the 
door, Margaret took her gently in her arms. 

“ Let me go, let me go ! ” Euphra almost screamed. Then 
suddenly opening her eyes, she stared at Margaret in a be- 
wildered fashion, like one waking from the dead. 

“ Euphra ! dear Euphra ! ” said Margaret. 

“0 Margaret! is it really you?” exclaimed Euphra, 
flinging her arms about her. “Oh, I am glad. Ah ! you 
see what I must have been about. I suppose I knew when I 
was doing it, but I don’t know now. I have forgotten ad 
About it. Ok. dear ! oh, dear ! I thought it would come to this. ’ 


416 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


<{ Come to bed, dear. You couldn’t help it. It was not 
yourself. There is not more than half of you awake, when 
you walk in your sleep.” 

They went to bed. Euphra crept close to Margaret, and 
cried herself to sleep again. The next day she had a bad 
headache. This with her always followed somnambulation. 
She did not get up all that day. When Hugh called again 
in the evening, he heard she was better, but still in bed. 

Falconer joined Hugh at the Golden Staff, at night; but 
they had no better success than before. Falconer went out 
alone, for Hugh wanted to keep himself fresh. Though very 
strong, he was younger and less hardened than Falconer, who 
could stand an incredible amount of labor and lack of sleep. 
Hugh would have given way under the half. 


CHAPTER LXY. 


VICTORY. 

0 my admired mistress, quench not out 
The holy fires within you, though temptations 
Shower down upon you : clasp thine armor on ; 

Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars, 

Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch stars. 

Massinger. — The Virgin Martyr. 


But Hugh could sleep no more than if he had been out 
vith Falconer. He was as restless as a wild beast in a cage. 
Something would not let him be at peace. So he rose, 
dressed, and went out. As soon as he turned the corner, he 
could see Mrs. Elton’s house. It was visible both by inter- 
mittent moonlight above, and by flickering gaslight below, 
for the wind blew rather strong. There was snow in the air, 
he knew. The light they had observed last night was burn- 
ing now. A moment served to make these observations ; and 
then Hugh’s eyes were arrested by the sight of something 
else, — a ma n walking up and down the pavement in front of 
Mrs Elton’s house. He instantly stepped into the shadow 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


417 


of a porch to watch him. The figure might be the count’s ; 
it might not ; he could not be sure. Every new and then the 
man looked up to the windows. At length he stopped right 
under the lighted one, and looked up. Hugh was on the point 
of gliding out, that he might get as near him as possible be- 
fore rushing on him. when, at the moment, to his great morti- 
fication, a policeman emerged from some mysterious corner, 
and the figure instantly vanished in another. Hugh did not 
pursue him ; because it would be to set all on a single chance, 
and that a poor one ; for if the count, should it be he, suc- 
ceeded in escaping, he would not return to a spot which he 
knew to be watched. Hugh, therefore, withdrew once more 
under a porch, and waited. But, whatever might be the 
cause, the man made his appearance no more. Hugh con- 
trived to keep watch for two hours, in spite of suspicious 
policemen. He slept late into the following morning. 

Calling at Mrs. Elton’s, he learned that the count had not 
been there ; that Miss Cameron had been very ill all night ; 
but that she was rather better since the morning. 

That night, as the preceding, Margaret had awaked 
suddenly. Euphra was not in the bed beside her. She 
started up in an agony of terror ; but it was soon allayed, 
though not removed. She saw Euphra on her knees at the 
foot of the bed, an old-fashioned four-post one. She had her 
arms twined round one of the bedposts, and her head thrown 
back, as if some one were pulling her backwards by the hair, 
which fell over her night-dress to the floor in thick, black 
masses. Her eyes were closed ; her face was death-like, 
almost livid ; and the cold dews of torture were rolling down 
from brow to chin. Her lips were moving convulsively, with 
now and then the appearance of an attempt at articulation, as 
if they were set in motion by an agony of inward prayer. 
Margaret, unable to move, watched her with anxious sympathy 
and fearful expectation. How long this lasted she could not 
tell ; but it seemed a long time. At length Margaret rose, and 
longing to have some share in the struggle, however small, 
went softly, and stood behind her, shadowing her from a 
feeble ray of moonlight which, through a wind-rent cloud, had 
stolen into the room, and lay upon her upturned face. There 
she lifted up her heart in prayer. In a moment after, the 
27 


418 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


tension of Euphra’s countenance relaxed a little ; composure 
slowly followed \ her head gradually rose, so that Margaret 
could see her face no longer ; then as gradually drooped for- 
ward. Next her arms untwined themselves from the bedpost, 
and her hands clasped themselves together. She looked like 
one praying in the intense silence of absorbing devotion. 
Margaret stood still as a statue. 

In speaking about it afterwards to Hugh, Margaret told 
him that she distinctly remembered hearing, while she stood, 
the measured steps of a policeman pass the house on the pave- 
ment below. 

In a few minutes Euphra bowed her head yet lower, and 
then rose to her feet. She turned round towards Margaret, 
as if she knew she was there. To Margaret’s astonishment, 
her eyes were wide open. She smiled a most childlike, 
peaceful, happy smile, and said : — 

“It is over, Margaret, all over at last. Thank you. with 
my whole heart. God has helped me.” 

At that moment the moon shone out full, and her face ap- 
peared in its light like the face of an angel. Margaret looked on 
her with awe. Fear, distress, and doubt had vanished, and 
she was already beautiful like the blessed. Margaret got a 
handkerchief, and wiped the cold damps from her face. Then 
she helped her into bed, where she fell asleep almost instantly, 
and slept like a child. Now and then she moaned ; but when 
Margaret looked at her, she saw the smile still upon her 
countenance. 

She woke weak and worn, but happy. 

“ 1 shall not trouble you to-day, Margaret, dear,” said she. 
“ I shall not get up yet, but you will not need to watch me. 
A great change has passed upon me. I am free. I have 
overcome him. He may do as he pleases now. I do not care. 
I defy him. I got up last night in my sleep, but I remember 
all about it ; and, although I was asleep, and felt powerless 
like a corpse, I resisted him, even when I thought he was 
dragging me away by bodily force. And I resisted him, till 
he left me alone. Thank God ! ” 

It had been a terrible struggle, but she had overcome. 
Nor was this all : she would no more lead two lives, the 
waking and the sleeping. Her waking will and conscience 


DAVID ELGINBEOD 


419 


had asserted themselves in her sleeping acts ; and the memory 
of the somnambulist lived still in the waking woman. Hence 
her two lives were blended into one life ; and she was no more 
two, but one. This indicated a mighty growth of individual 
being. 

“ I woke without terror,” she went on to say. “ I always 
used to wake from such a sleep in an agony of unknown fear. 
I do not think I shall ever walk in my sleep again.” 

Is not salvation the uniting of all our nature into one 
harmonious whole, — God first in us, ourselves last, and all in 
due order between ? Something very much analogous to the 
change in Euphra takes place in a man when he first learns 
that his beliefs must become acts; that his religious life and 
his human life are one ; that he must do the thing that he 
admires. The Ideal is the only absolute Real ; and it must 
become the Real in the individual life as well, however im- 
possible .they may count it who never try it, or who do not 
trust in God to effect it, when they find themselves baffled in 
the attempt. 

In the afternoon, Euphra fell asleep, and, when she woke, 
seemed better. She said to Margaret : — 

“ Can it be that it was all a dream, Margaret? — I mean 
my association with that dreadful man. I feel as if it were 
only some horrid dream, and that I could never have had any- 
thing to do with him. I may have been out of my mind, you 
know, and have told you things which I believed firmly 
enough then, but which never really took place. It could not 
have been me, Margaret, could it? ” 

“ Not your real, true, best self, dear.” 

“ I have been a dreadful creature, Margaret. But I feel 
that all that has melted away from me, and gone behind the sun- 
set, which will forever stand, in all its glory and loveliness, 
between me and it, an impassable rampart of defence.” 

Her words sounded strange and excited, but her eye and 
her pulse were calm. 

“How could he ever have had that hateful power ovei 
me? ” 

“ Don’t think any more about him, dear, but ei joy the real 
God has given you.” 

“I will, I will.” 


420 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


At that moment^ a maid came to the door, with Funkel* 
stein’ s card for Miss Cameron. 

“Ver y well,” said Margaret; “ask him to wait. I will 
tell Miss Cameron. She may wish to send him a message. 
You may go.” 

She told Euphra that the count Tvas in the house. Euphra 
showed no surprise, no fear, no annoyance. 

“ Will you see him for me, Margaret, if you don’t mind ; and 
tell him from me, that I defy him ; that I do not hate him, 
only because I despise and forget him ; that I challenge him to 
do his worst ? ” 

She had forgotten all about the ring. But Margaret had not. 

“ I will,” said she, and left the room. 

On her way down, she went ino the drawing-room, and rang 
the bell. 

“ Send Mr. Irwan to me here, please. It is for Miss Cam- 
eron.” 

The man went, but presently returned, saying that the but- 
ler had just stepped out. 

“ Very well. You will do just as well. When the gentle- 
man leaves who is calling now, you must follow him. Take 
a cab, if necessary, and follow him everywhere, till you find 
where he stops for the night. Watch the place, and send me 
word where you are. But don’t let him know. Put on plain 
clothes, please, as fast as you can.” 

“Yes, miss, directly.” 

The servants all called Margaret, miss. 

She lingered yet a little, to give the man time. She was 
not at all satisfied with her plan, but she could think of noth- 
ing better. Happily, it was not necessary. Irwan had 
run as fast as his old legs would carry him to the Golden 
Staff. Hugh received the news with delight. His heart 
seemed to leap into his throat, and he felt just as he did, when, 
deer-stalking for the first time, he tried to take aim at a great 
red stag. 

“ I shall wait for him outside the door. We must have no 
noise in the house. He is a thief, or worse, Irwan.” 

“ Good gracious ! And there’s the plate all laid out for 
dinner on the sideboard ! ’ exclaimed Irwan, and hurried off 
faster than he had come. 


DAVID ELGINBRCD. 


421 


But Hugh was standing at the door long before Irwan got 
up to it. Had Margaret known who was watching outside, it 
would have been a wonderful relief to her. 

She entered the dining-room where the count stood impatient. 
He advanced quickly, acting on his expectation of Euphra, but, 
seeing his mistake, stopped and bowed politely. Margaret told 
him that Miss Cameron was ill, and gave him her message, 
word for word. The count turned pale with mortification and 
rage. He bit his lip, made no reply, and walked out into the 
hall, where Irwan stood with the handle of the door in his 
hand, impatient to open it. No sooner was he out of the 
house, than Hugh sprung upon him ; but the count, who had 
been perfectly upon his guard, eluded him, and darted off down 
the street. Hugh pursued at full speed, mortified at his 
escape. He had no fear at first of overtaking him, for he had 
found few men his equals in speed and endurance ; but he soon 
saw, to his dismay, that the count was increasing the distance 
between them, and feared that, by a sudden turn into some 
labyrinth, he might escape him altogether. They passed the 
Golden Staff at full speed, and at the next corner Hugh dis- 
covered what gave the count the advantage : it was his agility 
and recklessness in turning corners. But, like the sorcerer’s 
impunity, they failed him at last ; for, at the next turn, he ran 
full upon Falconer, who staggered back, while the count reeled 
and fell. Hugh was upon him in a moment. “Help!” 
roared the count, for a last chance from the sympathies of a 
gathering crowd. 

“I’ve got him,” cried Hugh. 

“ Let the man alone,” growled a burly fellow in the crowd, 
with his fists clenched in his trowser-pockets. 

“ Let me have a look at him,” said Falconer, stooping over 
him. “ Ah ! I don’t know him. That’s as well for him. 
Let him up, Sutherland.” 

The bystanders took Falconer for a detective, and did not 
seem inclined to interfere, all except the carman before men- 
tioned. He came up, pushing the crowd right and left. “ Let 
the man alone,” said he, in a very offensive tone. 

“ I assure you,” said Falconer, “he’s not worth your trou- 
ble ; for — ” 

“None o’ your cursed jaw ! ” said the fellow, in a louder 


422 


DAVID ELGIN3R0D. 


and deeper growl, approaching Falconer with a threatening 
mien. 

“Well, I can’t help it,” said Falconer, as if to himseli. 

“ Sutherland, look after the count.” 

“ That I will,” said Hugh, confidently. 

Falconer turned on the carman, who was just on the point 
of closing with him, preferring that mode of fighting; and 
saying only, “Defend yourself,” retreated a step. The man 
was good at his fists too, and, having failed in his first attempt, 
made the best use of them he could. But he had no chance 
with Falconer, whose coolness equalled his skill. 

Meantime, the Bohemian had been watching his chance ; and 
although the contest certainly did not last longer than one min- 
ute, found opportunity, in the middle of it, to wrench himself 
free from Hugh, trip him up, and dart off. The crowd gave 
way before him. He vanished so suddenly and completely, 
that it was evident he must have studied the neighborhood 
from the retreat-side of the question. With rat-like instinct, 
he had consulted the holes and corners in anticipation of the 
necessity of applying to them. Hugh got up, and, directed, 
or possibly misdirected, by the bystanders, sped away in pur- 
suit ; but he could hear or see nothing of the fugitive. 

At the end of the minute the carman lay in the road. 

“ Look after him, somebody,” said Falconer. 

“No fear of him, sir; he’s used to it,” answered one of 
the bystanders, with the respect which Falconer’s prowess 

claimed. . 

Falconer walked after Hugh, who soon returned, looking 
excessively mortified, and feeling very small indeed. 

“Never mind, Sutherland,” said he. “The fellow is up 
to a trick or two; but we shall catch him yet. If it hadn’t 
been for that big fool there. But lie’s punished enough.” 

“But what can we do next? He will not come here 
again.” 

“ Very likely not. Still he may not give up liis attempts 
upon Miss Cameron. I almost wonder, seeing she is so im- 
pressible, that she can give no account of his whereabouts. But 
I presume clairvoyance depends on the presence of other quali- 
fications as well. I should like to mesmerize her myself, and 
see whether she could not help us then.” 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


423 


‘Well, why not, if you have the power ? ” 

{c Because I have made up my mind not to superinduce any 
condition of whose laws I am so very partially informed. Be- 
sides, I consider it a condition of disease, in which, as by 
sleeplessness, for instance, the senses of the soul, if you will 
allow the expression, are, for its present state, rendered un- 
naturally acute. To induce such a condition, I dare not exer 
cise a power which itself I do not understand.” 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

MARGARET. 


For though that ever virtuous was she, 

She was increased in such excellence, 

Of thewes good, yset in high bounte, 

And so discreet and fair of eloquence, 

So benign, and so digne of reverence, 

And couthe so the poeplo’s hert embrace, 

That each her loveth that looketh in her face. 

Chaucer. — The Clerk's Tale. 


Hugh returned to Mrs. Elton’s, and, in the dining-room, 
wrote a note to Euphra, to express his disappointment and 
shame that, after all, the count had foiled him ; but, at the 
same time, his determination not to abandon the quest, till 
there was no room for hope left. He sent this up to her, and 
waited, thinking that she might be on the sofa, and might send 
for him. A little weary from the reaction of the excitement 
he had just gone through, he sat down in the corner farthest 
from the door. The large room was dimly lighted by one un- 
trimmed lamp. 

He sat for some time, thinking that Euphra was writing 
him a note, or perhaps preparing herself to see him in her 
room. Involuntarily he looked up, and a sudden pang, as at 
the vision of the disembodied, shot through his heart. A dim 
form stood in the middle of the room, gazing earnestly at him. 
He saw the same face which he had seen for a moment in the 
library at Arnstead, — the glorified face of Margaret Elgin- 


424 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


brod, shimmering faintly in the dull light. Instinctively he 
pressed his hands together, palm to palm, as if he had been 
about to kneel before Madonna herself. Delight, mingled with 
hope, and tempered by shame, flushed his face. Ghost or 
none, she brought no fear with her, only awe. 

She stood still. 

“ Margaret ! he said, with trembling voice. 

“Mr. Sutherland! ” she responded, sweetly. 

“ Are you a ghost, Margaret?” 

She smiled as if she were all spirit, and, advancing slowly, 
took his joined hands in both of hers. 

“ Forgive me, Margaret,” sighed he, as if with his last 
breath, and burst into an agony of tears. 

She waited motionless, till his passion should subside, still 
holding his hands. He felt that her hands were so good. 

“ He is dead ! ” said Hugh, at last, with an effort, followed 
by a fresh outburst of weeping. 

“Yes, he is dead,” rejoined Margaret, calmly. “You 
would not weep so if you had seen him die as I did, — die with 
a smile like a summer sunset. Indeed, it was the sunset to 
me ; but the moon has been up for a long time now.” 

She sighed a gentle, painless sigh, and smiled again like a 
saint. She spoke nearly as Scotch as ever in tone, though 
the words and pronunciation were almost pure English. This 
lapse into so much of the old form, or rather garment, of 
speech, constantly recurred, as often as her feelings were moved, 
and especially when she talked to children. 

“ Forgive me,” said Hugh, once more. 

“ We are the same as in the old days,” answered Margaret ; 
and Hugh was satisfied. 

“ How do you come to be here ? ” said Hugh, at last, after 
a silence. 

“ I will tell you all about that another time. Now I must 
give you Miss Cameron’s message. She is very sorry she 
cannot see you, but she is quite unable. Indeed, she is not 
out of bed. But if you could call to-morrow morning, she 
hopes to be better and to be able to see you. She says she can 
never thank you enough.” 

The lamp burned yet fainter. Margaret went, and pro- 
ceeded to trim it. The virgins that arose must have looted 


DAVID ELGINBROD, 


425 


very lovely trimming their lamps. It is a deed very fair and 
womanly — the best for a woman — to make the lamp burn. 
The light shone up in her face, and the hands removing the 
globe handled it delicately. He saw that the good hands were 
very beautiful hands ; not small, but admirably shaped, and 
very pure. As she replaced the globe, — 

“That man,” she said, “ will not trouble her anymore.” 

“I hope not,” said Hugh; “but you speak confidently; 
why ? ” 

“ Because she has behaved gloriously. She has fought 
and conquered him on his own ground ; and she is a free, and 
beautiful, and good creature of God forever.” 

“You delight me,” rejoined Hugh. “Another time, per- 
haps, you will be able to tell me all about it.” 

“ I hope so. I think she will not mind my telling you.” 

They bade each other good-night ; and Hugh went away 
with a strange feeling, which he had never experienced before. 
To compare great things with small, it was something like 
what he had once felt in a dream, in which, digging in his 
father’s garden, he had found a perfect marble statue, young 
as life, and yet old as the hills. To think of the girl he had 
first seen in the drawing-room at Turriepuffit, idealizing her- 
self into such a creature as that, so grand, and yet so womanly ; 
so lofty, and yet so lovely ; so strong, and yet so graceful ! 

Would that every woman believed in the ideal of herself, 
and hoped for it as the will of God, not merely as the goal of 
her own purest ambition ! But even if the lower develop- 
ment of the hope were all she possessed, it would yet be well ; 
for its inevitable failure would soon develop the higher and 
triumphant hope. 

He thought about her till he fell asleep, and dreamed about 
her till he woke. Not for a moment, however, did he fancy 
he was in love with her ; the feeling was different from any he 
had hitherto recognized as embodying that passion. It was 
the recognition and consequent admiration of a beauty which 
every one who beheld it must recognize and admire ; but 
mingled, in his case, with old and precious memories, doubly 
dear now in the increased earnestness of his nature and aspi- 
rations, and with a deep personal interest from the fact that, 
however little, he had yet contributed a portion of the vital 


426 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


food whereby the gracious creature had become what she 
was. 

In the so-called morning, he went to Mrs. Elton’s. Euphra 
was expecting his visit, and he was shown up into her room, 
where she was lying on the couch by the fire. She received 
him with the warmth of gratitude added to that of friendship. 
Her face was pale and thin, but her eyes were brilliant. She 
did not appear at first sight to be very ill ; but the depth and 
reality of her sickness grew upon him. Behind her couch 
stood Margaret, like a guardian angel. Margaret could bear 
the day, for she belonged to it ; and therefore she looked more 
beautiful still than by the lamp-light. Euphra held out a pale 
little hand to Hugh, and before she withdrew it, led Hugh’s 
towards Margaret. Their hands joined. How different to 
Hugh was the touch of the two hands ! Life, strength, per- 
sistency in the one ; languor, feebleness, and fading in the 
other. 

“ I can never thank you enough,” said Euphra; “there- 
fore I will not try. It is no bondage to remain your debtor.” 

“ That would be thanks indeed, if I had done anything.” 

“ I have found out another mystery,” Euphra resumed, 
after a pause. 

“Iam sorry to hear it,” answered he. “I fear there will 
be no mysteries left by and by.” 

“No fear of that,” she rejoined, “so long as the angels 
come down to men.” And she turned towards Margaret as 
she spoke. 

Margaret smiled. In the compliment she felt only the 
kindness. 

Hugh looked at her. She turned away, and found some- 
thing to do at the other side of the room. 

“ What mystery, then, have you destroyed ? ” 

“ Not destroyed it; for the mystery of courage remains. I 
was the wicked ghost that night in the Ghost’s Walk, you 
know, — the white one ; there is the good ghost, the nun, the 
black one.” 

“ Who ? Margaret ? ” 

“Yes, indeed. She has just been confessing it to me. I 
had my two angels, as one whose fate was undetermined ; my 
evil angel in the count — my good angel in Margaret. Little 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


427 


did I tli ink then that the holy powers were watching me in 

her. I knew the evil one ; I knew nothing of the good. I 

suppose it is so with a great many people.” 

Hugh sat silent in astonishment. Margaret, then, had been 
at Arnstead with Mrs. Elton all the time. It was herself he 
had seen in the study. 

u Did you suspect me, Margaret? ” resumed Euphra, turn* 
ing towards her where she sat at the window. 

“ Not in the least. I only knew that something was wrong 
about the house ; that some being was terrifying the servants 

and poor Harry ; and I resolved to do my best to meet it, 

especially if it should be anything of a ghostly kind.” 

“ Then you do believe in such appearances? ” said Hugh. 

“I have never met anything of the sort yet. I don’t 
know.” 

“ And you were not afraid ? ” 

“ Not much. I am never really afraid of anything. Wh\ 
should I be?” 

No justification of fear was suggested either by Hugh or by 
Euphra. They felt the dignity of nature that lifted Margaret 
above the region of fear. 

“ Come and see me again soon,” said Euphra, as Hugh 
rose to go. 

He promised. 

Next day he dined by invitation with Mrs. Elton and 
Harry. Euphra was unable to see him, but sent a kind 
message by Margaret as he was taking his leave. He had 
been fearing that he should not see Margaret ; and when she 
did appear, he was the more delighted ; but the interview was 
necessarily short. 

He called the next day, and saw neither Euphra nor 
Margaret. She was no better. Mrs. Elton said the physi- 
cians could discover no definite disease either of the lungs or 
of any other organ. Yet life seemed sinking. Margaret 
thought that the conflict which she had passed through had 
exhausted her vitality ; that, had she yielded, she might have 
lived a slave ; but that now, perhaps, she must die a free 
woman. 

Her continued illness made Hugh still more anxious to find 
the ring, for he knew it would please her much. Falconer 


128 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


would have applied to the police, but he feared that the man 
would vanish from London, upon the least suspicion that he 
was watched. They held many consultations on the sub- 
ject. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

A NEW GUIDE. 

Das Denken ist nur ein Traum des Fiihlens, ein erstorbenes Fiihlen, ein blass* 
graues, sohwaches Leben. 

Thinking is only a dream of feeling; a dead feeling; a pale-gray, feeble life. 

Noyalis. — Die Lehrlinge zu Sais. 

For where’s no courage, there’s no ruth nor mone. 

Faerie Queene , vi. 7, 18. 

One morning, as soon as she waked, Euphra said : — 

“ Have I been still all the night, Margaret? ” 

“ Quite still. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because I have had such a strange and vivid dream, that 
I feel as if I must have been to the place. It was a foolish 
question, though ; because, of course, you would not have let 
me go.” 

“ I hope it did not trouble you much.” 

“No, not much ; for though I was with the count, I did not 
seem to be there in the body at all, only somehow near him, 
and seeing him. I can recall the place perfectly.” 

“ Do you think it really was the place he was in at the 
time ? ” 

“ I should not wonder. But now I feel so free, so far be- 
yond him and all his power, that I don’t mind where or when 
I see him. He cannot hurt me now.” 

“Could you describe the place to Mr. Sutherland? It 
might help him to find the count.” 

“ That’s a good idea. Will you send for him ? ” 

“ Yes, certainly. May I tell him for what ? ” 

“ By all means.” 

Margaret wrote to Hugh at once, and sent the note by 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


429 


Hand. He was at home when it arrived. He hurriedly 
answered it, and went to find Falconer. To his delight he was 
at home, — not out of bed, in fact. 

“ Read that.” 

“ Who is it from? ” 

“ Miss Cameron’s maid.” 

“ It does not look like a maid’s production.” 

“It is though. Will you come with me? You know 
London ten thousand times better than I do. I don’t think 
we ought to lose a chance.” 

“Certainly not. I will go with you. But perhaps she 
will not see me.” 

“ Oh, yes, she will, when I have told her about you.” 

“ It will be rather a trial to see a stranger.” 

“ A man cannot be a stranger with you ten minutes, if he 
only looks at you ; — still less, a woman.” 

Falconer looked pleased, and smiled. 

“I am glad you think so. Let us go.” 

When they arrived, Margaret came to them. Hugh told 
her that Falconer was his best friend, and one who knew 
London perhaps better than any other man in it. Margaret 
looked at him full in the face for a moment. Falconer smiled 
at the intensity of her still gaze. Margaret returned the 
smile, and said : — 

“ I will ask Miss Cameron to see you.” 

“Thank you,” was all Falconer’s reply; but the tone was 
more than speech. 

After a little while, they were shown up to Euphra's room. 
She had wanted to sit up, but Margaret would not let her ; 
so she was lying on her couch. When Falconer was pre- 
sented to her, he took her hand, and held it for a moment. 
A kind of indescribable beam broke over his face, as if his 
spirit smiled and the smile shone through without moving one 
of his features as it passed The tears stood in his eyes. 1c 
understand all this look, one would need to know his history 
as I do. He laid her hand gently on her bosom, and said, 

“ God bless you ! ” . , 

Euphra felt that God did bless her in the very words. She 
had been looking at Falconer all the time It was only 
fifteen seconds or so; bi t the outcome of a life was crowded 


430 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


into Falconer’s side of it ; and the confidence of Euphra rose 
to meet the faithfulness of a man of God. — What words those 
are ! — A man of God ! Have I not written a revelation ? 
Yes — to him who can read it — yes. 

“ I know enough of your story, Miss Cameron,” he said, 
“to understand without any preface what you choose to tell 
me.” 

Euphra began at once : — - 

“ I dreamed last night that I found myself outside the street 
door. I did not know where I was going ; but my feet seemed 
to know. They carried me, round two or three corners, into 
a wide, long street, which I think was Oxford Street. They 
carried me on into London, far beyond any quarter I knew. 
All I can tell further is, that I turned to the left beside a 
church, on the steeple of which stood what I took for a wander- 
ing ghost just lighted there; only I ought to tell you, that fre- 
quently in my dreams — always in my peculiar dreams — the 
more material and solid and ordinary things are, the more thin 
and ghostly they appear to me. Then I went on and on, turning 
left and right too many times for me to remember, till at last I 
came to a little, old-fashioned court, with two or three trees in it. 
I had to go up a few steps to enter it. I was not afraid, because I 
knew I was dreaming, and that my body was not there. It is a 
great relief to feel that sometimes ; for it is often very much in 
the way. I opened a door, upon which the moon shone very 
bright, and walked up two flights of stairs into aback room. 
And there I found him, doing something at a table by candle- 
light. He had a sheet of paper before him ; but what he was 
doing with it, I could not see. I tried hard ; but it was of no 
use. The dream suddenly faded, and I awoke, and found 
Margaret. Then I knew I was safe,” she added, with a 
loving glance at her maid. 

Falconer rose. 

“I know the place you mean perfectly,” he said. “It is 
too peculiar to be mistaken. Last night, let me see, how did 
the moon shine ? — Yes. I shall be able to tell the very door, 
I think, or almost.” 

“ How kind of you not to laugh at me ! ” 

“ I might make a fool of myself if I laughed at any one. 
So I generally avoid it. We may as well get the good out of 


DAVID ELGINBROD 


431 


what we do not understand, or at least try if there be any 
in it. Will you come, Sutherland? ” 

Hugh rose, and took his leave with Falconer. 

“ How pleased she seemed with you, Falconer! ” said he, 
as they left the house. 

“ Yes, she touched me.” 

“Won’t you go and see her again ? ” 

“ No ; there is no need, except she sends for me.” 

“ It would please her, — comfort her, I am sure.” 

“ She has got one of God’s angels beside her, Sutherland. 
She doesn’t want me.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean that maid of hers.” 

A pang — of jealousy, was it ? — shot though Hugh’s heart. 
How could he see, — what right had he to see anything in 
Margaret ? 

Hugh might have kept himself at peace, even if he had 
loved Margaret as much as she deserved, which would have 
been about ten times as much as he did. Is a man not to rec- 
ognize an angel when he sees her, and to call her by her name ? 
Had Hugh seen into the core of that grand heart, — what 
form sat there, and how, — he would have been at peace, 
would almost have fallen down to do the man homage. He 
was silent. 

“ My dear fellow ! ” said Falconer, as if he divined his feel- 
ing, — for Falconer’s power over men and women came all 
from sympathy with their spirits, and not their nerves, “if 
you have any hold of that woman, do not lose it ; for as sure 
as there’s a sun in heaven, she is one of the winged ones. 
Don’t I know a woman when I see her? ” 

He sighed with a kind of involuntary sigh, which yet did 
not seek to hide itself from Hugh. 

“ My dear boy” he added, laying a stress on the word, 
“I am nearly twice your age, — don t be jealous of 
me.” 

“Mr. Falconer,” a^d Hugh, humbly, “forgive me. The 
feeling was involuntary ; and if you have detected in it more 
than I was aware of, you are at least as likely to be right as I 
am. But you cannot think more highly of Margaret than I 

da” 


432 


DAVID ELGINBEOD. 


And yet Hugh did not know half the good of her then, that 
the reader does now. 

« 4 Well, we had better part now, and meet again at night.” 

“ What time shall I come to you? ” 

“ Oh ! about nine I think will do.” 

So Hugh went home, and tried to turn his thoughts to his 
story ; but Euphra, Ealconer, Funkelstein, and Margaret per- 
sisted in sitting to him, the one after the other, instead of the 
heroes and heroines of his tale. He was compelled to lay it 
aside, and betake himself to a stroll and a pipe. 

As he went downstairs, he met Miss Talbot. 

“ You’re soon tired of home, Mr. Sutherland. You haven't 
been in above half an hour, and you’re out again already.” 

“ Why, you see, Miss Talbot, I want a pipe very much.” 

“Well, you aint going to the public house to smoke it, are 
you? ” 

“No,” answered Hugh, laughing. “But you know, Miss 
Talbot, you made it part of the agreement that I shouldn’t 
• smoke indoors. So I’m going to smoke in the street.” 

“Now, think of being taken that way!” retorted Miss 
Talbot, with an injured air. “ Why, that was before I knew 
anything about you. Go upstairs directly, and smoke your 
pipe ; and when the room can’t hold any more, you can open 
the windows. Your smoke won’t do any harm, Mr. Sutherland. 
But I’m very sorry you quarrelled with Mrs. Appleditch. 
She’s a hard woman, and over-fond of her money and her 
drawing-room ; and for those boys of hers, — the Lord have 
mercy on them, for she has none ! But she’s a true Christian 
for all that, and does a power of good among the poor people.” 

“ What does she give them, Miss Talbot? ” 

“ Oh ! — she gives them — hm-m — tracts and things. 
You know,” she added, perceiving the weakness of her position, 
“ people’s souls should come first. And poor Mrs. Appleditch 
- — you see — some folks is made stickier than others, and their 
money sticks to them, somehow, that they can’t part with it, 
— poor woman ! ” 

To this Hugh had no answer at hand ; for though Miss 
Talbot’s logic was more than questionable, her charity was 
perfectly sound ; and Hugh felt that he had not been forbear- 
ing enougli with the mother of the future pastors. So he went 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


433 


back to his room, lighted his pipe, and smoked till he fell asleep 
over a small volume of morbid modern divinity, which Miss 
Talbot had lent him. I do not mention the name of the book, 
lest some of my acquaintance should abuse me, and others it, 
more than either deserves. Hugh, however, found the best 
refuge from the diseased self-consciousness which it endeavored 
to rouse, and which is a kind of spiritual somnambulism, in an 
hour of God’s good sleep, into a means of which the book was 
temporarily elevated. When he woke he found himself greatly 
refreshed by the influence it had exercised upon him. 

It was now the hour for the daily pretence of going to dine. 
So he went out. But all he had was some bread, which he ate 
as he walked about. Loitering here, and trifling there, passing 
five minutes over a volume in every bookstall in Holborn, and 
comparing the shapes of the meerschaums in every tobacconist’s 
window, time ambled gently along with him ; and it struck 
nine just as he found himself at Falconer’s door. 

“ You are ready, then? ” said Falconer. 

“ Quite.” 

1 1 Will you take anything before you go ? I think we had 
better have some supper first. It is early for our project.” 

This was a welcome proposal to Hugh. Cold meat and ale 
were excellent preparatives for what might be required of him ; 
for a tendency to collapse in a certain region, called by courtesy 
the chest, is not favorable to deeds of valor. By the time he 
had spent ten minutes in the discharge of the agreeable duty 
suggested, he felt himself ready for anything that might fall 
to his lot. 

The friends set out together ; and, under the guidance of 
the two foremost bumps upon Falconer’s forehead, soon arrived 
at the place he judged to be that indicated by Euphra. It 
was very different from the place Hugh had pictured to him- 
self Yet in every thing it corresponded to her description. 

“Are we not great fools, Sutherland, to set out on such a 
chase, with the dream of a sick girl for our only guide?” 

“Iam sure you don’t think so, else you would not have 
gone.” 

“ I think we can afford the small risk to our reputation in- 
volved in the chase of this same wild-goose. There is enough 
of strange testimony about things of the sort to just 'fy us in 
28 


434 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


attending to the hint. Besides, if we neglected it, it would 
be mortifying to find out some day, perhaps a hundred years 
after this, that it was a true hint. It is altogether different 
from giving ourselves up to the pursuit of such things. — But 
this ought to be the house,” he added, going up to one that 
had a rather more respectable look than the rest. 

He knocked at the door. An elderly woman half opened 
it, and looked at them suspiciously. 

“ Will you take my card to the foreign gentleman who is 
lodging with you, and say I am happy to wait upon him?” 
said Falconer. 

She glanced at him again, and turned inwards, hesitating 
whether to leave the door half open, or not. Falconer stood 
so close to it, however, that she was afraid to shut it in his 

face. 

“Now, Sutherland, follow me,” whispered Falconer, as 
soon as the woman had disappeared on the stair. 

Hugh followed behind the moving tower of his friend, who 
strode with long, noiseless strides till he reached the stair. 
That he took three steps at a time. They went up two flights, 
and reached the top just as the woman was laying her hand on 
the lock of the back-room door. She turned and faced them. 

“ Speak one word,” said Falconer, in a hissing whisper, 
“and — ” 

He completed the sentence by an awfully threatening 
gesture. She drew back in terror, and yielded her place at 
the door. 

“ Come in,” bawled some one, in second answer to the 
knock she had already given. 

“ It is he ! ” said Hugh, trembling with excitement. 

“ Hush ! ” said Falconer, and went in. 

Hugh followed. He knew the back of the count at once. 
He was seated at a table, apparently writing ; but, going 
nearer, they saw that he was drawing. A single closer glance 
showed them the portrait of Euphra growing under his hand. 
In order to intensify his will and concentrate it upon her, he 
was drawing her portrait from memory. But at the moment 
they caught sight of it, the wretch, aware of a hostile 
presence, sprang to his feet, and reached the chimney-piece at 
one bound, whence he caught up a sword. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


435 


* 1 Take care, Falconer,” cried Hugh; “that weapon ia 
poisoned. He is no every-day villain you have to deal with.” 

He remembered the cat. 

Funkelstein made a sudden lunge at Hugh, his face pale 
with hatred and anger. But a blow from Falconer’s huge 
fist, travelling faster than the point of his weapon, stretched 
him on the floor. Such was Falconer’s impetus, that it 
hurled both him and the table across the fallen villain. Fal- 
coner was up in a moment. Not so Funkelstein. There was 
plenty of time for Hugh to secure the rapier, and for Falconer 
to secure its owner, before he came to himself. 

“Where’s my ring?” said Hugh, the moment he opened 
his eyes. 

“ Gentlemen, I protest,” began Funkelstein, in a voice upon 
which the cord that bound his wrists had an evident influence. 

“ No chaff! ” said Falconer. “ We’ve got all our feathers. 
Hand over the two rings, or be the security for them yourself.” 

“ What witness have you against me? ” 

“ The best of witnesses, — Miss Cameron.” 

“ And me,” added Hugh. 

“ Gentlemen, I am very sorry. I yielded to temptation. 
I meant to restore the diamond after the joke had been played 
out, but I was forced to part with it.” 

“ The joke is played out, you see,” said Falconer. “ So 
you had better produce the other bauble you stole at the same 
time.” 

“ I have not got it.” 

“ Come, come, that’s too much. Nobody would give you 
more than five shillings for it. And you knew what it was 
worth when you took it. Sutherland, you stand over him 
while I search the room. This portrait may as well be put 
out of the way first.” 

As he spoke, Falconer tore the portrait and threw it into 
the fire. He then turned to a cupboard in the room. 
Whether it was that Funkelstein feared further revelations, 1 
tdo not know, but he quailed. 

“ I have not got it,” he repeated, however. 

“You lie,” answered Falconer. 

“ I would give it you if I could.” 

“ Ycu shall.” 


436 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


The Bohemian looked contemptible enough now, despite the 
handsomeness of his features. It needed freedom, and the 
absence of any urgency, to enable him to personate a gentle- 
man. Given those conditions, he succeeded. But as soon as 
he was disturbed, the gloss vanished and the true nature camp 
out, that of a ruffian and a sneak. He quite quivered at the 
look with which Falconer turned again to the cupboard. 

“Stop,” he cried; “here it is.” 

And muttering what sounded like curses, he pulled out of 
his bosom the ring, suspended from his neck. 

“Sutherland,” said Falconer, taking the ring, “secure 
that rapier, and be careful with it. We will have its point 
tested. Meantime,” — here he turned again to his prisoner 
— “I give you warning that the moment I leave this house, 
I go to Scotland Yard. Do you know the place ? I there 
recommend the police to look after you, and they will mind 
what 1 say. If you leave London, a message will be sent, 
wherever you go, that you had better be watched. My advice 
to you is, to stay where you are as long as you can. I shall 
meet you again.” 

They left him on the floor, to the care of his landlady, whom 
they found outside the room, speechless with terror. 

As soon as they were in the square, on which the moon was 
now shining, as it had shone in Euphra’s dream the night be- 
fore, Falconer gave the ring to Hugh. 

“ Take it to a jeweller’s, Sutherland, and get it cleaned, be- 
fore you give it to Miss Cameron.” 

“I will,” answered Hugh, and added, “I don’t know how 
to thank you.” 

“ Then don’t,” said Falconer, with a smile. 

When they reached the end of the street, he turned, and 
bade Hugh good-night. 

“Take care of that cowardly thing. It may be as you say.” 

Hugh turned towards home. Falconer dived into a court, 
4nd was out of sight in a moment. 


DAVID ELG INBROD. 


437 


CHAPTER LXYIIL 

THE LAST GROAT. 

Thou hast been 

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing; 

A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards 
Hast ta’en with equal thanks; and blessed are those 
Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled 
That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger 
To sound what stop she please. 

Hamlet. 

Most friends befriend themselves with friendship’s show. 

Southwell. 

Hugh took the ring to Mrs. Elton’s, and gave it into Mar- 
garet’s hand. She brought him back a message of warmest 
thanks from Euphra. She had asked for writing materials at 
once, and was now communicating the good news to Mr. 
Arnold, in Madeira. 

“ I have never seen her look so happy,” added Margaret. 
11 She hopes to be able to see you in the evening, if you would 
not mind calling again.” 

Hugh did call, and saw her. She received him most kindly. 
He was distressed to see how altered she was. The fire of one 
life seemed dying out — flowing away and spending from her 
eyes, which it illuminated with too much light as it passed out. 
But the fire of another life, the immortal life, which lies in 
thought and feeling, in truth and love divine, which death can- 
not touch, because it is not of his kind, was growing as fast. 
He sat with her for an hour, and then went. 

This chapter of his own history concluded, Hugh returned 
with fresh energy to his novel, and worked at it as his inven- 
tion gave him scope. There was the more necessity that he 
should make progress, from the fact that, having sent his 
mother the greater part of the salary he had received from 
Mr. Arnold, he was now reduced to his last sovereign. Poverty 
looks rather ugly when she comes so close as this. But she 
had not yet accosted him ; and with a sovereign in his pocket, 
and last week’s rent paid, a bachelor is certainly not poverty- 
stricken, at least when he is as independent, not only of other 
people, but of himself, as Hugh was. Still, without more 


488 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


money than that, a man walks in fetters, and is ready to forget 
that the various restraints he is under are not incompatible 
with most honorable freedom. So Hugh worked as hard as 
he could to finish his novel, and succeeded within a week. Then 
the real anxiety began. He carried it, with much doubtful hope, 
to one of the principal publishing-houses. Had he been more 
selfishly wise, he would have put it into the hands of Falconer 
to negotiate for him. But he thought he had given him quite 
trouble enough already. So he went without an introduction 
even. The manuscript was received politely, and attention 
was promised. But a week passed, and another, and another. 
A human soul was in commotion about the meat that perisheth 
— and the manuscript lay all the time unread, — forgotten in 
a drawer. 

At length he reached his last coin. He had had no meat 
for several days, except once that he dined at Mrs. Elton s. 
But he would not borrow till absolutely compelled, and six- 
pence would keep him alive another day. In the morning he 
had some breakfast (for he knew his books were worth enough 
to pay all he owed Miss Talbot), and then he wandered out. 
Through the streets he paced and paced, looking in at all the 
silversmiths’ and printsellers’ windows, and solacing his pov- 
erty with a favorite amusement of his in uneasy circumstances, 
an amusement cheap enough for a Scotchman reduced to his 
last sixpence, — castle-building. This is not altogether a bad 
employment where hope has laid the foundation j but it is rather 
a heartless one where the imagination has to draw the ground 
plan as well as the elevations. The latter, however, was not 
quite Hugh’s condition yet. He returned at night, carefully 
avoiding the cook-shops and their kindred snares, with a silver 
groat in his pocket still. But he crawled upstairs rather fee- 
bly, it must be confessed, for a youth with limbs moulded in 
the fashion of his. 

He found a letter waiting him, from a friend of his mother, 
informing him that she was dangerously ill, itfid urging him to 
set off immediately for home. This was like the blast of fiery 
breath from the dragon’s maw, which overthrew the Red-cross 
knight — but into the well of life, where all his wounds were 
heaTed, and — and — well — board and lodging provided him 
gratis. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


439 


When he had read the letter, he fell on his knees, and said 
to his Father in heaven, “ What am I to do? ” 

There was no lake with golden pieces in its bottom, whence 
a fish might bring him a coin. Nor in all the wide London 
lav there one he could claim as his, but the groat in his pocket. 

He rose with the simple resolution to go and tell Falconer. 
He went. He was not at home. Emboldened by necessity, 
Hu<di left his card, with the words on it, “ Come to me ; I 
need you.” He then returned, packed a few necessaries, and 
sat down to wait. But he had not sat five minutes before Fal- 
coner entered. 

“What’s the matter, Sutherland, my dear fellow: lou 
haven’t pricked yourself with that skewer, have you ? ” 

Hugh handed him the letter with one hand ; and when he 
had read it, held out the fourpenny piece in the other hand, 
to be read likewise. Falconer understood at once. 

“ Sutherland,” he said, in a tone of reproof, “ it is a shame 
of you to forget that men are brothers. Are not two who come 
out of the heart of God, as closely related as if they had lam 
in the womb of one mother ? Why did you not tell me ? You 
have suffered — I am sure you have. 

“ I have — a little,” Hugh confessed. “ I am getting rather 
low in fact. I haven’t had quite enough to eat.” 

He said this to excuse the tears which Falconer s kindness 

not hunger — compelled from their cells. 

“ But ” °he added, “ I would have come to you as soon as 
the fourpence was gone; or, at least, if I hadn’t got another 

before I was very hungry again ” 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed Falconer, half angrily. -then 
pullin* out his watch, “ We have two hours,” said he, “ before 
a train starts for the north. Come to my place. 

Hush rose and obeyed. Falconer’s attendant soon brought 
them a plentiful supper from a neighboring shop ; after which 
Falconer got out one of his bottles of port, well known to his 
more intimate friends ; and Hugh thought no more about money 
than if he had had his purse full. If it had not been for 
anxiety about his mother, he would have been happier than he 
had ever been in his life before. For, crossing in the night 
the wavering, heaving morass of the world had he not set his 
foot upon one spot which did not shake; the summit, indeed. 


440 


DAVID ELQINBROD. 


of a mighty Plutonic rock, that went down widening away to 
the very centre of the earth ? As he sped along in the rail- 
way that night, the prophecy of thousands of years came back : 
“A man shall be a hiding-place from the wind, a covert from 
the tempest, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.” 
And he thought it would be a blessed time indeed, when this 
was just what a man was. And then he thought of the Son 
of Man, who, by being such first, was enabling all his friends 
to be such too. Of him Falconer had already learned this 
“ truth in the inward parts ; ” and had found, in the process of 
learning it, that this was the true nature which God had made 
his from the first, no new thing superinduced upon it. He 
had had but to clear away the rubbish of worldliness, which 
more or less buries the best natures for a time, and so to find 
himself. 

After Hugh had eaten and drunk, and thus once more ex- 
perienced the divinity that lay in food and wine, he went to 
take leave of his friends at Mrs. Elton’s. Like most invalids, 
Euphra was better in the evening ; she requested to see him. 
He found her in bed, and much wasted since he saw her last. 
He could not keep the tears from filling his eyes, for all the 
events of that day had brought them near the surface. 

“Do not cry, dear friend,” she said sweetly. “ There is 
no room for me here any more, and I am sent for.” 

Hugh could not reply. She went on : — 

“ I have written to Mr. Arnold about the ring, and all you 
did to get it. Do you know he is going to marry Lady 
Emily? ” 

Still Hugh could not answer. 

Margaret stood on the other side of the bed, the graceful 
embodiment of holy health, and, in his sorrow, he could not 
help feeling the beauty of her presence. Her lovely hands 
were the servants of Euphra, and her light, firm feet moved 
only in ministration. He felt that Euphra had room in the 
w r orld while Margaret waited on her. It is not house, and fire, 
and plenty of servants, and all the things that money can pro- 
cure, that make a home — not father or mother or friends ; but 
one heart which will not be weary of helping, will not be 
offended with the petulance of sickness, nor the ministrations 
needful to weakness; fhis “entire affection hating nicer 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


441 


bands” will make a home of a cave in a rock, or a gipsy’s 
tent. This Eupkra had in Margaret, and Hugh saw it. 

u I trust you will find your mother better, Hugh,” said 
Euphra. 

“ I fear not,” answered he. 

“ Well, Margaret has been teaching me, and I think I have 
learned it, that death is not at all such a dreadful thing as it 
looks. I said to her, ‘ It is easy for you, Margaret, who are 
so far from death’s door.’ But she told me that she had been 
all but dead once, and that you had saved her life almost with 
your own. 0 Hugh ! she is such a dear ! ” 

Euphra smiled with ten times the fascination of any of her 
old smiles ; for the soul of the smile was love. 

“I shall never see you again, I dare say,” she went on. 
“ My heart thanks you, from its very depths, for your good- 
ness to me. It has been a thousand times more than I 
deserve.” 

Hugh kissed in silence the wasted hand held out to him in 
adieu, and departed. And the world itself was a sad wander- 
ing star. 

Falconer had called for him. They drove to Miss Talbot’s, 
where Hugh got his “ bag of needments,” and bade his landlady 
good-by for a time. Falconer then accompanied him to the 
railway. 

Having left him for a moment, Falconer rejoined him, say • 
ing, 11 I have your ticket;” and put him into a first-class 
carriage. 

Hugh remonstrated. Falconer replied : — 

“ I find this hulk of mine worth taking care of. You will 
be twice the good to your mother, if you reach her tolerably 
fresh.” 

He stood by the carriage door, talking to him, till the train 
started ; walked alongside till it was fairly in motion ; then 
bidding him good-by, left in his hand a little packet, which 
Hugh, opening it by the light of the lamp, found to consist of 
a few sovereigns and a few shillings folded up in a twenty* 
pound note. 

I ought to tell one other little fact, however. J ust before 
the engine whistled, Falconer said to Hugh : — 

“ Give me that fourpenny piece, you brave old fellow ! ” 


442 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


“ There it is,” said Hugh. “ What do you want it fcr? *’ 
u I am going to make a wedding-present of it to your wife 
whoever she may happen to be. I hope she will be worthy of 
it.” 

Hugh instantly thought within himself : — 

11 What a wife Margaret would make to Falconer ! ” 

The thought was followed by a pang, keen and clear. 

Those who are in the habit of regarding the real and the 
ideal as essentially and therefore irreconcilably opposed, wil) 
remark that I cannot have drawn the representation of Fal- 
coner faithfully. Perhaps the difficulty they will experience 
in recognizing its truthfulness, may spring from the fact that 
they themselves are unideal enough to belong to the not small 
class of strong-minded friends whose chief care, in performing 
the part of the rock in the weary land, is — not to shelter you 
imprudently. They are afraid of weakening your constitution 
by it, especially if it is not strong to begin with ; so if they do 
just take off the edge of the tempest with the sharp corners 
of their sheltering rock for a moment, the next, they will 
thrust you out into the rain, to get hardy and self-denying, by 
being wet to the skin and well blown about. 

The rich easily learn the wisdom of Solomon, but are unapt 
scholars of Him who is greater than Solomon. It is, on the 
other hand, so easy for the poor to help each other, that they 
have little merit in it ; it is no virtue — only a beauty. But 
there are a few rich, who, rivalling the poor in their own pecu- 
liar excellences, enter into the kingdom of heaven in spite of 
their riches ; and then find that by means of their riches they 
are made rulers over many cities. She to whose memory this 
book is dedicated, is — I will not say was — one of the noblest 
of such. 

There are two ways of accounting for the difficulty which a 
reader may find in believing in such a character : either that, 
not being poor, he has never needed such a friend ; or that, be- 
ing rich, he has never been such a friend. 

Or if it be that, being poor, he has never found such a friend, 
his difficulty is easy to remove : — I have 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


443 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

DEATH. 

Think then, my soul, that Death is but a groom 
Which brings a Taper to the outward room, 

Whence thou spy’st first a little glimmering light; 

And after brings it nearer to thy sight: 

For such approaches doth heaven make in death. 

Dr. Doxne. 

Hugh found his mother even worse than he had expected ; 
but she rallied a little after his arrival. 

In the evening he wandered out in the bright moonlit snow. 
How strange it was to see all the old forms with his heart so 
full of new things ! The same hills rose about him, with all 
the lines of their shapes unchanged in seeming. Yet they 
were changing as surely as himself ; nay, he continued more 
the same than they ; for in him the old forms were folded up 
in the new. In the eyes of Him who creates time, there is no 
rest, but a living sacred change, a journeying towards rest. He 
alone rests ; and he alone, in virtue of his rest, creates change. 

He thought with sadness, how all the haunts of his child- 
hood would pass to others, who would feel no love or reverence 
for them; that the house would be the same, but sounding with 
new steps, and ringing with new laughter. A little further 
thought, however, soon satisfied him that places die as well as 
their dwellers ; that, by slow degrees, their forms are wiped 
out ; that the new tastes obliterate the old fashions ; and that 
ere long the very shape of the house and farm would be lapped, 
as it were, about the tomb of him who had been the soul of the 
shape, and would vanish from the face of the earth. 

All the old things at home looked sad. The look came from 
this, that, though he could sympathize with them and their 
story, they could not sympathize with him, and he suffused 
them with his own sadness. He could find no refuge in the 
past ; he must go on into the future. 

His mother lingered for some time without any evident 
change. He sat by her bedside the most of the day. All she 
wanted was to have him within reach of her feeble voice, that 


444 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


she might, when she pleased, draw him within touch of her 
feeble hand. Once she said : — 

“ My boy, I am going to your father.” 

“Yes, mother, I think you are,” Hugh replied. “How 
glad he will be to see you ! ” 

“ But I shall leave you alone.” 

“Mother, I love God.” 

The mother looked at him, as only a mother can look, 
smiled sweetly, closed her eyes as with the weight of her con- 
tentment, fell asleep holding his hand, and slept for hours. 

Meanwhile, in London, Margaret was watching Euphra. 
She was dying, and Margaret was the angel of life watching 
over her. 

“ I shall get rid of my lameness there, Margaret, shall I 
not?” said Euphra, one day, half playfully. 

“Yes, dear.” 

“ It will be delightful to walk again without pain.” 

“ Perhaps you will not get rid of it all at once, though.” 

“ Why do you think so? ” asked Euphra, with some appear- 
ance of uneasiness. 

“ Because, if it is taken from you before you are quite will- 
ing to have it as long as God pleases, by and by you will not be 
able to rest, till you have asked for it back again, that you 
may bear it for his sake.” 

“I am willing, Margaret, I am willing. Only one can’t 
like it, you know.” 

“I know that,” answered Margaret. 

She spoke no more, and Margaret heard her weeping gently. 
Half an hour had passed away, when she looked up, and 
said : — 

“ Margaret dear, I begin to like my lameness, I think.” 

“Why, dear?” 

“ Why, just because God made it, and bade me bear it. 
May I not think it is a mark on me from His hand ? ” 

“ Yes, I think so.” 

“Why do you think it came on me?” 

“To walk back to Him with, dear.” 

“ Yes, yes ; I see it all.” 

Until now, Margaret had not known to what a degree the 
lameness of Euphra had troubled her. That her pretty ankle 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


445 


should be deformed, and her light foot able only to limp, had 
been a source of real distress to her, even in the midst of far 
deeper. 

The days passed on, and every day she grew weaker. She 
did not suffer much, but nothing seemed to do her good. Mrs. 
Elton was kindness itself. Harry was in dreadful distress. 
He haunted her room, creeping in whenever he had a chance, 
and sitting in corners out of the way. Euplira liked to havo 
him near her. She seldom spoke to him, or to any one but 
Margaret, for Margaret alone could hear with ease what she 
said. But now and then she would motion him to her bedside, 
and say, — it was always the same : — 

“ Harry, dear, be good.” 

“I will; indeed I will, dear Euphra,” was still Harry’s 
reply. 

Once, expressing to Margaret her regret that she should be 
such a trouble to her, she said : — 

“ You have to do so much for me that I am ashamed.” 

“ Do let me wash the feet of one of his disciples,” Mar- 
garet replied, gently expostulating ; after which, Euphra never 
grumbled at her own demands upon her. 

Again, one day, she said : — 

“I am not right at all to-day, Margaret. God can’t love 
me, I am so hateful.” 

“ Don’t measure God’s mind by your own, Euphra. It 
would be a poor love that depended not on itself, but on the 
feelings of the person loved. A crying baby turns away from 
its mother’s breast, but she does not put it away till it stops 
crying. She holds it closer. For my part, in the worst 
mood I am ever in, when I don’t feel I love God at all, I just 
look up to his love. I say to him, £ Look at me. See what 
state I am in. Help me ! ’ Ah ! you would wonder how that 
makes peace. And the love comes of itself; sometimes so 
strong, it nearly breaks my heart.” 

“ But there is a text I don’t like.” 

“Take another, then.” 

“ But it will keep coming.” 

“ Give it back to God, and never mind it.” 

“ But would that be right? ” 

“ One day, when I was a little girl, so high, I couldn’t eat 


446 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


my porridge, and sat looking at it. 4 Eat your porridge/ 
said my mother. ‘I don’t want it,’ I answered. 4 There’s 
nothing else for you/ said my mother; for she had not 
learned so much from my father then, as she did before he 
died. 4 Hoots ! ’ said my father — I cannot, dear Euphra, 
make his words into English.” 

“No, no, don’t,” said Euphra; I shall understand them 
perfectly.” 

“ 4 Hoots ! Janet, my woman ! ’ said my father. 4 Gie the 
bairn a dish o’ tay. Wadna ye like some tay, Maggy, my 
doo? ’ 4 Ay, wad 1/ said I. 4 The parritch is guid eneuch/ 

said my mother. 4 Nae doot aboot the parritch, woman ; it’s 
the bairn’s stamack, it’s no the parritch.’ My mother said 
no more, but made me a cup of such nice tea ; for whenever 
she gave in, she gave in quite. I drank it ; and, half from 
anxiety to please my mother, half from reviving hunger, at- 
tacked the porridge next, and ate it up. 4 Leuk at that ! ’ 
said my father. 4 Janet, my woman, gie a body the guid that 
they can tak,’ an’ they’ 11 sune tak’ the guid that they canna. 
Ye’re better noo, Maggy, my doo? ’ I never told him that I 
had taken the porridge too soon after all, and had to creep 
into the wood, and be sick. But it is all the same for the 
story.” 

Euphra laughed a feeble but delighted laugh, and applied 
the story for herself. 

So the winter days passed on. 

44 1 wish I could live till the spring,” said Euphra. 44 1 
should like to see a snowdrop and a primrose again.” 

44 Perhaps you will, dear; but you are going into a better 
spring. I could almost envy you, Euphra.” 

44 But shall we have spring there?” 

44 1 think so.” 

44 And spring-flowers ? ” 

44 1 think we shall — better than here.” 

44 But they will not mean so much.” 

44 Then they won’t be so good. But I should think they 
would mean ever so much more, and be ever so much more 
spring-like. They will be the spring-flowers to all winters in 
one, 1 think.” 

Folded in the love of this woman, anointed for her death by 


DAVID KLGINBR D. 


447 


her wisdom, baptized for the new life by her sympathy and its 
tears, Euphra died in the arms of Margaret. 

Margaret wept, fell on her knees, and gave God thanks. 
Mrs. Elton was so distressed, that as soon as the funeral w r as 
over she broke up her London household, sending some of the 
servants home to the country, and taking some to her favorite 
watering-place, to which Harry also accompanied her. 

She hoped that, now the affair of the ring was cleared up, 
she might, as soon as Hugh returned, succeed in persuading 
him to follow them to Devonshire, and resume his tutorship. 
This would satisfy her anxiety about Hugh and Harry both. 

Hugh’s mother died too, and was buried. When he re- 
turned from the grave which now held both father and mother, 
he found a short note from Margaret, telling him that Euphra 
was gone. Sorrow is easier to bear when it comes upon sor- 
row ; but he could not help feeling a keen additional pang, 
when he learned that she was dead whom he had loved once, 
and now loved better. Margaret’s note informed him like- 
wise that Euphra had left a written request, that her diamond 
ring should be given to him to wear for her sake. 

He prepared to leave the home whence all the homeness had 
now vanished, except what indeed lingered in the presence of 
an old nurse, who had remained faithful to his mother to the 
last. The body itself is of little value after the spirit, the 
love, is out of it ; so the house and all the old things are little 
enough, after the loved ones are gone who kept it alive and 
made it home. 

All that Hugh could do for this old nurse was to furnish a 
cottage for her out of his mother’s furniture, giving her every- 
thing she liked best. Then he gathered the little household 
treasures, the few books, the few portraits and ornaments, his 
father’s sword, and his mother’s wedding-ring ; destroyed with 
sacred fire all written papers ; sold the remainder of the fur- 
niture, which he would gladly have burnt too, and so proceeded 
to take his last departure from the home of his childhood. 


448 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

NATURE AND HER LADY. 

Die Frauen sicd oin liebliches Gehoimniss, nur verhallt, nioht versohlossen. — 
Noyaus. — Morlische Ansichten. 

Women are a lovely mystery — veiled, howover, not shut up. 

Her twilights were more clear than our mid-day; 

She dreamt devoutlier than most men use to pray. 

Dr. Donnjs. 

Perhaps the greatest benefit that resulted to Hugh from 
being thus made a pilgrim and a stranger in the earth was, 
that Nature herself saw him, and took him in. Hitherto, as I 
have already said, Hugh’s acquaintance with Nature had been 
chiefly a second-hand one, — he knew friends of hers. Nature 
in poetry — not in the form of Thomsonian or Cowperian de- 
scriptions, good as they are, but closely interwoven with and 
expository of human thought and feeling — had long been dear 
to him. In this form he had believed that he knew her so 
well, as to be able to reproduce the lineaments of her beloved 
face. But now she herself appeared to him, — the grand, 
pure, tender mother, ancient in years, yet ever young ; ap • 
peared to him, not in the mirror of a man’s words, but bend- 
ing over him from the fathomless bosom of the sky, from the 
outspread arms of the forest-trees, from the silent judgment of 
the everlasting hills. She spoke to him from the depths of 
air, from the winds that harp upon the boughs, and trumpet 
upon the great caverns, and from the streams that sing as they 
go to be lost in rest. She would have shone upon him out of 
the eyes of her infants, the flowers, but they had their faces 
turned to her breast now, hiding from the pale blue eyes and 
th3 freezing breath of old Winter, who was looking for them 
with his face bent close to their refuge. And he felt that she 
had a power to heal and to instruct ; yea, that she was a power 
of life, and could speak to the heart and conscience mighty 
words about God and Truth and Love. 

For he did not forsake his dead home in ha3te. He lingered 
over it, and roamed about its neighborhood. Regarding all 
about him with quiet, almost passive spirit, he was astonished 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


449 


to find how his eyes opened to see nature in the mass. Before, 
he had beheld only portions and beauties. When or how the 
change passed upon him he could not tell. But he no longer 
looked for a pretty eyebrow or a lovely Lp on the face of 
Nature ; the soul of Nature looked out upon him from the har- 
mony of all, guiding him unsought to the discovery of a 
thousand separate delights ; while from the expanded vision 
new meanings flashed upon him every day. He beheld in the 
great All the expression of the thoughts and feelings of the 
Maker of the heavens and the earth and the sea and the 
fountains of water. The powers of the world to come, that is, 
the world of unseen truth and ideal reality, were upon him in 
the presence of the world that now is. For the first time in 
his life, he felt at home with nature ; and while he could moan 
with the wintry wind, he no longer sighed in the wintry 
sunshine, that foretold, like the far-off flutter of a herald’s 
banner, the approach of victorious lady-spring. 

With the sorrow and loneliness of loss within him, and 
nature around him seeming to sigh for a fuller expression of 
the thought that throbbed within her, it is no wonder that the 
form of Margaret, the gathering of the thousand forms of 
nature into one intensity and harmony of loveliness, should 
rise again upon the world of his imagination, to set no more. 
Father and mother were gone. Margaret remained behind. 
Nature lay around him like a shining disk, that needed a 
risible centre of intensest light, — a shield of silver, that 
needed but a diamond boss. Margaret alone could be that 
centre, — that diamond light-giver ; for she alone, of all the 
women he knew, seemed so to drink of the sun’s rays of God, 
as to radiate them forth, for very fulness upon the clouded 
world. 

She had dawned on him like a sweet crescent moon, hanging 
far-off in a cold and low horizon ; now, lifting his eyes, he saw 
that same moon nearly at the full, and high overhead, yet 
leaning down towards him through the deep blue air, that 
overflowed with her calm triumph of light. He knew that he 
loved her now. He knew that every place ho went through 
caught a glimmer of romance the moment he thought of her ; 
that every most trifling event that happened to himself looked 
like a piece of a story-book the moment he thought of telling 
2d 


450 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


it to her. But the growth of these feelings had been gradual, 
— so slow and gradual, that when he recognized them it 
Beemed to him as if he had felt them from the first. The fact 
was, that as soon as he began to be capable of loving Margaret, 
he had begun to love her. He had never been able to under- 
stand her° till he was driven into the desert. But new that 
Nature revealed herself to him full of Life, yea, of the Life 
of Life, namely, of God himself, it was natural that he should 
honor and love that “ lady of her own; ” that he should rec- 
ognize Margaret as greater than himself, as nearer to the 
heart of Nature, — yea, of God the father of all. She had been 
one with Nature from childhood, and when he began to be one 
with Nature too, he must become one with her. 

And now, in absence, he began to study the character of 
her whom, in presence, he had thought he knew perfectly. 
He soon found that it was a Manoa, a golden city in a land 
of Paradise, — too good to be believed in, except by him who 
was blessed with the beholding of it. He knew now that she 
had always understood what he was only just waking to 
recognize. And he felt that the scholar had been very 
patient with the stupidity of the master, and had drawn from 
his lessons a nourishment of which he had known nothing 
himself. 

But dared he think of marrying her, a creature inspired 
with the presence of the Spirit of God, which none but the 
saints enjoy, and thence clothed with a garment of beauty, 
which her spirit wove out of its own loveliness ? She was 
a being to glorify any man merely by granting him her 
habitual presence ; what, then, if she gave her love ! She would 
bring with her the presence of God himself, for she walked 
ever in his light, and that light clung to her and radiated from 
her. True, many young maidens must be walking in the 
sunshine of God, else whence the light and loveliness and 
blocm, the smile and the laugh of their youth ? But Margaret 
not only walked in this light ; she knew it and whence it came. 
She looked up to its Source, and it illuminated her face. 

The silent girl of old days, whose countenance wore the 
stillness of an unsunned pool, as she listened with reverence 
to his lessons, had blossomed into the calm, stately woman, 
before whose presence he felt r .buked, he knew not why, upon 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


451 


whose face lay slumbering thought, ever ready to wake into 
life and motion. Dared he love her ? Dared he tell her that 
he loved her? Dared he, so poor, so worthless, seek for him- 
self such a world’s treasure? He might have known that 
worth does not need honor ; that its lowliness is content with 
ascribing it. 

Some of my readers may be inclined to think that I hide, 
for the sake of my hero, — poor little hero, one of God’s 
children, learning to walk, — an inevitable struggle between 
bis love and his pride; inasmuch as, being but a tutor, he 
might be expected to think the more of his good family, and 
the possibility of bis one day coming to honor without the 
drawback of having done anything to merit it, a title being 
almost withiir his grasp ; while Margaret was a ploughman’s 
laughter, an 1 a lady’s maid. But, although I know more 
\f Hugh’s faults than I have thought it at all necessary to 
jring out in my story, I protest that, had he been capable of 
giving the name of love to a feeling in whose presence pride 
dared to speak, I should have considered him unworthy of my 
poor pen. In plain language, I doubt if I should have cared 
to write his story at all. 

He gathered together, as I have said, the few memorials of 
the old ship gone down in the quiet ocean of Time ; paid one 
visit of sorrowful gladness to his parent’s grave, over which he 
raised no futile stone, leaving it, like the forms within it, 
in the hands of holy decay ; and took his road — whither ? 
To Margaret’s home — to see old Janet; and to go once to the 
grave of his second father. Then he would return to the toil 
and hunger and hope of London. 

What made Hugh go to Turriepuffit ? His love for Mar- 
garet ? No. A better motive even than that, — BepenU 
ance. Better I mean for Hugh as to the individual occasion, 
not in itself; for love is deeper than repentance, seeing that 
without love there can be no repentance. He had repented 
before ; but now that he haunted in silence the regions of the 
past, the whole of his history in connection with David re- 
turned on him clear and vivid, a3 if passing once again before 
his eyes and through his heart ; and he repented more deeply 
still. Perhaps hf was not quite so much to blame as he 
thought himself. Perhaps only now was it possible for the 


452 


DAVID ELGINJBROD. 


seeds of truth, which David had sown in his heart, to show 
themselves above the soil of lower, yet ministering cares. 
They had needed to lie a winter long in the earth. Now the 
keen blasts and griding frosts had done their work, and they 
began to grow in the tearful prime. Sorrow for loss brought 
in her train sorrow for wrong, — a sister more solemn still, and 
with a deeper blessing in the voice of her lovirg farewell. 
It is a great mistake to suppose that sorrow is a part of re- 
pentance. It is far too good a grace to come so easily. A 
man may repent , that is, think better of it , and change his 
way , and be very much of a Pharisee — I do not say a hypo, 
crite — for a long time after ; it needs a saint to be sorrowful. 
Yet repentance is generally the road to this sorrow. And 
now that in the gracious time of grief, his eyesight purified by 
tears, he entered one after another all the chambers of the 
past, he humbly renewed once more his friendship with the 
noble dead, and with the homely, heartful living. The gray- 
headed man who walked with God like a child, and with his fel- 
low-men like an elder brother who was always forgetting his 
birthright and serving the younger ; the woman who believed 
where she could not see, and loved where she could not under- 
stand ; and the maiden who was still and lustreless, because 
she ever absorbed and seldom reflected the light, — all came 
to him, as if to comfort him once more in his loneliness, when 
his heart had room for them, and need of them yet again. 
David now became, after his departure, yet more of a father 
to him than before. For that spirit, which is the true soul 
of all this body of things, had begun to recall to his mind the 
words of David, and so teach him the things that David knew, 
the everlasting realities of God. And it seemed to him tho 
while, that he heard David himself uttering, in his homely, 
kingly voice, whatever truth returned to him from the echo- 
cave of the past. Even when a quite new thought arose 
within him, it came to him in the voice of David, or at least 
with the solemn music of his tones clinging about it as the 
murmur about the river’s course. Experience had now 
brought him up to the point where he could begin to profit 
by David’s communion ; ho needed the things which David 
could teach him ; and David began forthwith to give them to 
him. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


453 


That birth of nature in his soul, which enabled him to 
understand and love Margaret, helped him likewise to con- 
template, with admiration and awe, the towering peaks of 
David’s hopes, trusts, and aspirations. He had taught the 
ploughman mathematics, but that ploughman had possessed 
in himself all the essential elements of the grandeur of the old 
prophets, glorified by the faith which the Son of Man did not 
find in the earth, but left behind him to grow in it, and which 
had grown to a noble growth of beauty and strength in this 
peasant, simple and patriarchal in the midst of a self-conceited 
age. And, oh, how good he had been to him ! He had 
built a house that he might take him in from the cold, and 
make life pleasant to him, as in the presence of God. He had 
given him his heart every time he gave him his great manly 
hand. And this man, this friend, this presence of Christ, 
Hugh had forsaken, neglected, all but forgotten. He could 
not go, and, like the prodigal, fall down before him, and say, 
“Father, I have sinned against heaven and thee,” for that 
heaven had taken him up out of his sight. He could only 
weep instead, and bitterly repent. Yes ; there was one thing 
more he could do. Janet still lived. He would go to her, 
and confess his sin, and beg her forgiveness. Receiving it, he 
would be at peace. He knew David forgave him, whether he 
confessed or not ; and that, if he were alive, David would seek 
his confession only as the casting away of the separation from 
his heart, as the banishment of the worldly spirit, and as the 
natural sign by which he might know that Hugh was one with 
him yet. 

Janet was David’s representative on earth; he would go to 
her. 

So he returned, rich and great ; rich in knowing that he was 
the child of Him to whom all the gold mines belong ; and great 
in that humility which alone recognizes greatness, and in the 
beginnings of that meekness which shall inherit the earth. 
No more would he stunt his spiritual growth by self-satisfac- 
tion. No more would he lay aside, in the cellars of his mind, 
poor withered bulbs of opinions, which, but for the evil minis* 
trations of that self-satisfaction, seeking to preserve them by 
drying and salting, might have been already bursting into 
blossoms of truth, of infinite loveliness. 


454 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


He knew that Margaret thought far too well of him ; 
honored him greatly beyond his deserts. He would not allow 
her to be any longer thus deceived. He would tell her wha* 
a poor creature he was. But he would say, too, that he 
hoped one day to be worthy of her praise, that he hoped ta 
grow to what she thought him. If he should fail in convinc- 
ing her, he would receive all the honor she gave him humbly , 
as paid, not to him, but to what he ought to be. God grant it 
might be as to his future self ! 

In this mood he went to Janet. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

THE FIR-WOOD AGAIN. 

Er stand vor der himmlischen Jungfrau. Da hob er den leichten, glanzonden 
Sohleier, und — Rosenbltltchen sank in seine Arme. — Novalis. — Die Learlinge zu 
Sais. 

He stood before the heavenly Virgin (Isis, the Goddess of Nature). Then lifted 
be the light, shining veil, and — Rosebud ( his old love) sank into his arms. 

So womanly, so benigno, and so meek. ___ 

Chaccek. — Prol. to Leg. of Good Women. 

It was with a mingling of strange emotions, that Hugh ap- 
proached the scene of those not very old, and yet, to his feeling, 
quite early memories. The dusk was beginning to gather. 
The hoar-frost lay thick on the ground. The pine-trees stood 
up in the cold, looking, in their garment of spikes, as if the 
frost had made them. The rime on the gate was unfriendly, 
and chilled his hand. He turned into the foot-path. He saw 
the room David had built for him. Its thatch was one mass of 
mosses, whose colors were hidden now in the cuckoo-fruit of 
the frost. Alas ! how Death had cast his deeper frost over all ; 
for the man was gone from the hearth ! But neither old Win- 
ter nor Skeleton Death can withhold the feet of the little child 
Spring. She is stronger than both. Love shall conquer hate ; 
and God will overcome sin. 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


455 


He drew nigh to the door, trembling. It seemed strange to 
him that his nerves only, and not his mind, should feel. In 
moments of unusual excitement, it sometimes happens that the 
only consciousness a strong man has of emotion lies in an un- 
wonted physical vibration, the mind itself refusing to be dis- 
turbed. It is, however, but a seeming ; the emotion is so deep, 
that consciousness can lay hold of its physical result only. The 
cottage looked the same as ever, only the peat-stack outside 
was smaller. In the shadowiness of the firs, the glimmer of a 
fire was just discernible on the kitchen window. He trembled 
so much that he could not enter. He would go into the fir- 
wood first, and see Margaret’s tree, as he always called it in 
his thoughts and dreams. 

Very poor and stunted and meagre looked the fir-trees of 
Turriepuffit, after the beeches and elms of Arnstead. The 
evening wind whistled keen and cold through their dry needles, 
and made them moan, as if because they were fettered, and 
must endure the winter in helpless patience. Here and there 
amongst them rose the Titans of the little forest, the huge, 
old, contorted, wizard-like, yet benevolent beings, — the Scotch 
firs. Towards one of these he bent his way. It was the one 
under which he had seen Margaret, when he met her first in 
the wood, with her whole soul lost in the waving of its wind- 
swung, sun-lighted top, floating about in the sea of air like a 
golden nest for some silvery bird of heaven. To think that 
the young girl to whom he had given the primrose he had just 
found, the then first-born of the spring, should now be the 
queen of his heart ! Her childish dream of the angel haunt- 
in* the wood had been true, only she was the angel herself. 
He drew near the place. How well he knew it ! He seated 
himself, cold as it was in the February of Scotland, at the foot 
of the blessed tree. He did not know that it was cold. 

While he sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, a light rus- 
tle in the fallen leaves made him raise them suddenly. It was 
all winter and fallen leaves about him ; but he lifted his eyes, 
and in his soul it was summer : Margaret stood before him 
He was not in the least surprised. For how can one wondei 
to see before his eyes the form of which his soul is full ? -- 
there is no shock. She stood a little way off, looking — as jt 
she wanted to be sure before she moved a stop. She wa* 


456 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


dressed in a gray winsey gown, close to her throat anl wrists. 
She had neither shawl nor bonnet. Her fine health kept her 
warm, even in winter wood at sundown. She looked just the 
same; — a t home everywhere ; most at home in nature’s secret 
chamber. Like the genius of the place, she made the wintei 
wood look homely. What were the oaks and beeches of Arn 
stead now ? Homeliness and glory are heaven. 

She came nearer. 

“ Margaret ! ” he murmured, and would have risen. 

“ No, 'no ; sit still,” she rejoined, in a pleading tone. “ I 
thought it was the angel in the picture. Now I know it. Sit 
still, dear Mr. Sutherland, one moment more.” 

Humbled by his sense of unworthiness, and a little distressed 
that she could so quietly reveal the depth of her feeling to- 
wards him, he said : — 

4 4 Ah, Margaret! I wish you would not praise one so little 
deserving it.” 

“Praise!” she repeated, with an accent of wonder. “I 
praise you ! No, Mr. Sutherland ; that I am not guilty of. 
Next to my father, you made me know and feel. And as I 
walked here, I was thinking of the old times, and older times 
still ; and all at once I saw the very picture out of the old 
Bible.” 

She came close to him now. He rose, trembling, but held 
out no hand, uttered no greeting. 

“ Margaret, dare I love you?” he faltered. 

She looked at him with wide-open eyes. 

“ Me? ” she said ; and her eyes did not move from his. A 
slight rose-flush bloomed out on her motionless face. 

11 Will you be my wife? ” he said, trembling yet more. 

She made no answer, but looked at him still, with parted 
lips, motionless. 

u I am very poor, Margaret. I could not marry now.” 

It was a stupid speech, but he made it. 

“ I don’t care,” she answered, with a voice like thinking, 
“ if you never marry me.” 

He misunderstood her, and turned cold to the very heart. 
He misunderstood her stillness. Her heart lay so deep, that it 
took a long time for its feelings to reach and agitate the sur- 
face. He said no moj-e, but turned away with a sigh. 


DAVID ELGIN B ROD. 


457 


“ Come home to my mother,” she said. 

He obeyed mechanically, and walked in silence by her 
side. They reached the cottage and entered. Margaret said, 
“Here he is, mother,” and disappeared. 

Janet was seated — in her widow’s mutch , with the plain 
black ribbon down both sides, and round the back — in the 
arm-chair by the fire, pondering on the past, or gently dream- 
ing of him that was gone. She turned her head. Sorrow had 
baptized her face with a new gentleness. The tender expression 
which had been but occasional while her husband lived, was 
almost constant now. She did not recognize Hugh. He saw 
it, and it added weight to his despair. He was left outside. 

“ Mother ! ” he said, involuntarily. 

She started to her feet, cried, “My bairn! my bairn!” 
threw her arms around him, and laid her head on his bosom. 
Hugh sobbed as if his heart would break. Janet wept ; but 
her weeping was quiet as a summer rain. He led her to her 
chair, knelt by her side, and, hiding his face in her lap like a 
child, faltered out, interrupted by convulsive sobs : — 

“Forgive me; forgive me. I don’t deserve it, but forgive 
me.” 

“Hoot awa, my bairn ! my bonny man ! Dinna greet that 
gait. The Lord preserve’s ! what are ye greetin’ for ? Are 
na ye come hame to yer ain? Didna Dawvid aye say, 

1 Gie the lad time, woman. It’s unco chaip, for the Lord’s aye 
makin’t. The best things is aye the maistplentifu’. Gie the 
lad time, my bonny woman ! ’ — didna he say that ? Ay, he 
ca’d me his bonny woman, ill as I deserved it at his han\ 
An’ it’s no for me to say ae word agen you, Maister Suther- 
land gin ye had been a hantle waur nor a young, thocthless lad 
cudna weel help bein’. An’ noo ye’re come hame, an’ nothing 
cud glaidden my heart mair, ’cep’ maybe the Maister himsel’ 
was to say to my man, 1 Dawvid, come furth ! ” 

Hugh could make no reply. He got hold of Margaret’s 
wooden stool, which stood in its usual place, and sat down 
upon it, at the old woman’s feet. She gazed in his face for a 
while, and then, putting her arm round his neck, drew his head 
to her bosom, and fondled him as if he had been her own first- 
born. 

“ But eh ! yer bonnie face is sharp an’ sma’ to what it 


458 


DAVID ELGINBROP. 


used to be, Maister Sutherlan’. Idoot ye hae come through a 
heap o’ trouble.” 

“ I’ll tell you all about it,” said Hugh. 

“ Na, na; bide still a wee. I ken a’ aboot it frae Maggy. 
An’ Guid preserve’s ! ye’re clean perished wi’ cauld. Lat 
me up, my bairn.” 

Janet rose and made up the fire which soon cast a joyful 
glow throughout the room. The peat-fire in the little cottage 
was a good symbol of the heart of its mistress, — it gave, far 
more heat than light. And for my part, dear as light is, I 
like heat better. She then put on the kettle, — or the boiler 
I think she called it, — saying : — 

“I’m jist gaen’ to mak’ ye a cup o’ tay, Mr. Sutherlan’. 
It’s the handiest thing, ye ken. An I doot ye’re muckle in 
want o’ something. Wad ye no tak’ a drappy oot o’ the 
bottle, i’ the mane time? ” 

“No, thank you,” said Hugh, who longed to be alone, for his 
heart was cold as ice ; “I would rather wait for the tea ; but I 
should be glad to have a good wash, after my journey.” 

“ Come yer wa’s, then, ben the hoose. I’ll jist gang an' 
get a drappy o’ het water in a decanter. Bide ye still by the 
fire.” 

Hugh stood, and gazed into the peat-fire. But he saw 
nothing in it. A light step passed him several times, but he 
did not heed it. The loveliest eyes looked earnestly towards 
him as they passed, but his were not lifted to meet their gaze. 

“ Noo, Maister Sutherlan’, come this way.” 

Hugh was left alone at length, in the room where David had 
slept, where David had used to pray. He fell on his knees, 
and rose comforted by the will of God. A few things of Mar- 
garet’s were about the room. The dress he had seen her in at 
Mrs. Elton’s was hanging by the bed. He kissed the folds of 
the garment, and said, “ God’s will be done.” He had just 
finished a hasty ablution when Janet called him. 

“ Come awa’, Maister Sutherlan’ ; come ben to yer ain 
chaumer,” said she, leading the way to the room she still called 
the study. Margaret was there. The room was just as he 
had left it. A bright fire was on the hearth. Tea was on the 
table, with eggs, and oat-cakes, and flour-scons in abundance ; 


DAVID ELGINBROD. 


459 


for Janet had the best she could get for Margaret, who was 
only her guest for a little while. But Hugh could not eat. 
Janet looked distressed, and Margaret glanced at him uneasily. 

“ Do eat something, Mr. Sutherland,” said Margaret. 

Hugh looked at her involuntarily. She did not understand 
his look, and it alarmed her. His countenance was changed. 

“What is the matter, dear — Hugh?” she said, rising, 
and laying her hand on his shoulder. 

“ Hoots ! lassie,” broke in her mother ; “ are ye makin’ love 
till a man, a gentleman , afore my verra een ? ” 

“ He did it first, mother,” answered Margaret, with a smile. 

A pang of hope shot through Hugh’s heart. 

“ Ow ! that’s the gait o’t, is’t ? The bairn’s gane dementit ! 
Ye’re no efter merryin’ a gentleman, Maggy ? Na, na, lass ! ” 

So saying, the old lady, rather crossly, and very impru- 
dently, left the room to fill the teapot in the kitchen. 

“ Do you remember this? ” said Margaret, — who felt that 
Hugh must have misunderstood something or other, — taking 
from her pocket a little book, and from the hook a withered 
flower. 

Hugh saw that it was like a primrose, and hoped against 
hope that it was the one which he had given to her, on the 
spring morning in the fir-wood. Still, a feeling very different 
from his might have made her preserve it. He must know all 
about it. 

“ Why did you keep that? ” he said. 

“ Because I loved you.” 

“ Loved me ? ” 

“ Yes. Didn’t you know ? ” 

“ Why did you say then, that you didn’t care if — if — 7 

( 1 Because love is enough, Hugh. — That was why.” 


THE END. 


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